The Silence of Cries Unheard
by Kelaine729
Summary: Belle tries to go on after Rumplestiltskin is banished from Storybrooke. Scarlet Beauty friendship, eventual Rumbelle.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Once Upon a Time.

X

"You're better off without him, Sister," Leroy told Belle as she sat at Granny's, staring at her iced tea. She'd thought of ordering something stronger. She'd thought of not ordering anything at all, just sitting there and staring at the water already in front of her. But, she could imagine Granny fussing over her and asking more questions, questions she didn't want to deal with. So, she ordered an iced tea and stared at it while she waited for a hamburger and fries.

Leroy had sat down next to her. She heard him talking and knew she was making responses.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"You feeling OK?"

"I'm fine."

And on and on. All of her conversations were like this lately. She didn't really need to say much. She didn't really need to listen. A few rote responses, and they kept going on their own.

"You did what you had to." That was a popular one. So was, "You didn't have a choice."

"You're better off without him." Leroy might be the first one to say it, but she had seen it in the eyes of everyone she passed. She heard it in the things they said and the things they didn't say.

"You're better off."

She wanted to pick up the iced tea and throw it at him. She wanted to smash the glass and then go on to break every other glass and plate and anything she could get ahold of in the whole diner—maybe the whole town.

Instead, she sat there, looking at her tea. She waited till Leroy got up and left, telling her something—maybe to have a good day, maybe some promise that he'd be there for her, maybe just something about how this job was done and now he had to get back to whatever it was he really wanted to do. Belle didn't know and didn't care. She put down the money for the food and left before Granny came back with the burger.

There were other people who were harder to ignore. Keith, for example. He'd begun showing up when she least wanted to see him and couldn't take a hint and go away. She'd even started to discuss him with Emma one day.

"Emma, you know Keith Notting?"

"Oh, yeah," Emma said. "How's that working out?"

Belle had stared at her, not following. "Working out?"

"He likes you, doesn't he? Hook says he was scared to ask you out, but he told him to go for it. Seems like Keith tried, once, and Gold threatened to take him apart. I'm sorry, Belle," Emma added. "I didn't know Gold was like that. I should have but I didn't think—I thought you were in love. I didn't know."

Belle listened while Emma went on apologizing, beginning to understand. Emma thought Rumple had been isolating her, threatening anyone outside of a narrow few who tried to talk to her. She saw Keith's handsome face and well-trimmed hair and thought she saw a guy Belle would have wanted to go out with—if Rumple would let her.

_No, _she wanted to tell her, _it wasn't like that. _She thought about trying to explain what Keith was—a man who thought any woman he met must be for sale—and what Keith had thought Rumple was—a man who would sell them—sell her.

That wasn't long after Rumple was gone. Belle hadn't learned how things had changed. She'd tried to tell Emma, stumbling through an explanation. But, she was so tired, and no one seemed to hear what she was saying to them anymore. Emma had nodded and said something about what a jerk Gold had been and she should have listened to Hook, and Belle gave up.

That's how it was these days. She didn't need to say anything. People had conversations in their head with her, and the last thing they wanted was for her to interrupt with something that didn't fit what they knew she should say.

Belle remembered being locked in a cell with no one to speak to and no one to listen. She remembered when her memories were gone and all she had was a brief recollection of a man wielding fire. She had begged for answers. People had murmured lies about it being all in her head as they slid a needleful of drugs into her system, the easier to talk things over with her.

Nothing had really changed, she supposed. Belle was the third wheel in any conversation she tried to have, asking questions or giving answers no one really wanted to hear.

Leroy and Emma, at least, were sympathetic. Other people saw her reading through Rumple's books of magic and looked askance at her, whispering behind their hands.

"The Dark One's wife," she heard them whisper. "The Curse of Shattered Sight, they said it was that enchantress, but it wasn't. It was him. She knew all about it. . . ."

The wall of ice, the curse around the town, Cora, Regina, Tamara, Owen, Pan, all his fault, all his plotting. Much good it had done him.

Belle didn't argue with them, either.

At first, she'd hoped she'd find the way to release the fairies and anyone else trapped in the hat—find it _quickly._ She'd go through the books, find the solution, and then—and then—

And then the fairies could take over whatever magic problems people in Storybrooke had. Belle would put up the "closed" sign in the pawn shop door. She'd go back to the house she hadn't set foot in since that day. She'd through Rumple's things, give the fairies whatever bits of magic she thought they should have, put away the others somewhere safe, lock the doors, and. . . .

And do whatever needed to be done next.

Belle had asked Emma questions about her old job, about finding people. She'd thought she was being subtle, but Emma had given her a look. "You're not thinking of looking for him, are you?" she asked. "You'd have to leave the town to do it and you wouldn't be able to get back."

"I threw him out with nothing," Belle said. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Oh, please," Emma said. "Gold always lands on his feet. Or are you still scared of him? He's not coming back. You don't need to worry."

"I'm not scared of him," Belle said softly. "I was never scared of him."

Emma didn't seem to hear her. "And, even if he did come back, you've got friends, now. We'd take care of you. Speaking of, how are things with you and Keith? Hook told me Keith asked you out to the movies. You should have said yes. It's time to move on."

Movies? No, Keith had asked to come over to her house—Rumple's house. She wasn't sure which he'd wanted to paw over more, her or Gold's treasures. Keith had had some wild ideas about what he'd find there, some wild cross between Ali Baba's cave and a porn flick.

For once, her husband's reputation worked in her favor. She'd told him Rumple had put a spell on the place before he left, one that would transform anyone who set foot there without his permission. No, she didn't know how to take it off.

Belle thought he'd believed her. After all, she hadn't set foot in the house herself since she packed up a few clothes and brought them over to her small apartment over the library.

And, if he didn't believe her, she'd set the alarms before she left. Rumple had had a state of the art one installed after the one time someone had been foolish enough to try breaking into his home.

Belle couldn't stand to sleep in their bed, one half of it painfully empty. She couldn't bear to look at all the small mementos he'd gathered over the years. She only knew the stories of a few of them and the memories were still enough to make her heart ache. Even worse was imagining someone like Keith groping and fondling them. The one-time sheriff would see nothing, she thought, nothing but bits of wealth or power. He wouldn't see the cherished echoes of a long, lonely life, the life of a man who had lost so much. . . .

And Belle had taken away the little he had left.

She wondered if Emma would bother to come if the alarms went off or if she would just tell herself whatever was happening was "for the best," the last memories of Rumplestiltskin being swept away from the town. The good sheriff could forget he ever existed if she hadn't forgotten already.

People were angry with Belle. Or angry with Rumple. It came to the same thing. They blamed him for the Curse of Shattered Sight. They blamed him for bringing them back here from the Enchanted Forest, never mind that it had been Snow who did that. They blamed him for the things Zelena had done and the things that witch had made Rumplestiltskin do.

There'd been no food or water in the cage Zelena kept Rumple in. There hadn't even been light in the storm cellar she'd used in this world—not even a blanket. Winter had been coming on, Belle remembered. Her breath had already been turning into mist that day they had trekked across the frozen ground to before going down into that dank hole, so much colder than the field above. It had been midday. She could only imagine how cold it became at night.

There hadn't even been a blanket, she thought again. Not even straw to lie down on.

She'd sent him out into the world with nothing, not his winter coat, not even his cane.

She'd walked back to town, back to their house. She must have, not that she remembered it. What she remembered was sitting in their room, her feet aching, her head throbbing with a headache from hours of crying, looking at their empty bed. Belle remembered how tired she'd been. There'd been nothing in the world she'd wanted as badly as lying down and going to sleep.

But, she couldn't sleep there, not in that empty, lonely bed.

She'd started to gather things—clothes, money, Bae's blanket from when he was a baby, the ball he'd played with as a boy. Last of all, she took the chipped teacup, wrapping it carefully. She'd put them in the car and, then, she'd seen the messages on her phone. People wanted answers—people _needed _answers.

Belle had tried to give them. She'd made calls, she'd spoken with people face to face. Then, she'd gone home and looked at the car, wondering if she'd thought of everything. While she was thinking it over, her phone rang again. There'd been another crisis. Then, another.

It was always something. Children playing a stupid game had managed to cast a spell, and they'd needed Belle to undo it. Hook looking for his hand, that he swore Rumple had somewhere. Regina needing a magic root. Snow White needing a long lost hair.

And, then, Hook had remembered to tell them how the fairies had been trapped in the hat. They needed Belle to find a way to free them. No one else could.

Oh, there was Regina. But, powerful as the queen was, she had no mind for theory and the more complicated rules of magic. The few times Belle had tried to get help from her, the queen had wound up rolling her eyes and complaining about how Belle was as bad as Rumplestiltskin, going on about the useless details.

So, Belle struggled to find answers and to run a library and to deal with other problems as they came, one after the other. Every day seemed to bring a new ones, the kind they would have once taken to Rumple to fix. Now, they brought them to Belle. Sometimes, she found answers, sometimes, she didn't. Looking over her limited supplies of potions and magical ingredients, there were more and more that she simply had to turn away. Some problems, after all, could be solved without magic. Others could be lived with. Still others came at prices that were much, much too high. Belle never did find the hand Hook swore had to be in the shop somewhere, but she wouldn't have dared try to put it back on him even she did. A malicious corner of her mind had already decided to send him to Dr. Frankenstein if the hand ever did turn up.

There were people now who spat on the sidewalk as she walked by. Keith snarled at her and asked why she thought was too good for him when everyone knew all she was was the Dark One's whore.

Belle knew where Rumple's gun was kept in the store. She hadn't taken it home with her, not yet. Part of her didn't want to admit things might be that bad. Another part of her remembered Rumple telling her to take it, to keep it with her in case Hook came after her. Instead, she'd let Hook get ahold of it. He'd shot her in the back after she'd begged Rumple not to kill him.

Emma said he'd changed.

She'd heard Hook talking to some friends (Keith was in the group) telling them about how Rumple had almost killed him that day in the tower. But, the story was different than what happened. Somehow, in his version, Hook was the hero who'd known the Dark One was up to something. Belle was the hapless fool who would have been destroyed (along with the rest of the town) if Hook hadn't stepped in to save them.

Then, Hook had seen her. He'd given her a drunken smile and called out, "Hey, Mrs. Gold, come say hello to my friend, Keith. As a favor to me. You owe me one."

Belle had ducked quickly into Tom Clark's store, but Hook and Keith walked in after her. Belle had a brief vision of telling Tom some men were following her and Tom, all helpful, telling her she should let Hook look after her. Instead, she looked down an empty aisle and broke into a smile as if she'd seen her best friend. "Emma! There you are! I was looking all over for you!"

Hook and Keith turned around and left.

She wanted to get in the car (Rumple's car), drive away, and never come back.

She wanted to free the fairies and let them take over the job of picking and choosing who to help.

And, more than anything, she wanted to take Rumple's magic globe, to ask—to _beg_, if she had to—for Henry to give her the drop of blood that would show where his grandfather had gone.

"This is your fault," Hook told her when he and Charming dragged her away from the library. Students with homework they needed help to finish glared at her as she left. "If Rumple were here, he'd have this fixed already."

Belle went hot then cold. "Rumple's not here," she reminded him. "I sent him away."

"You didn't have to," he said. "You had the dagger. You could have controlled him."

"He's got a point," Charming said. "So long as you kept him on a leash, we could have really used his help."

Controlled him.

Used him.

_Leashed_ him.

Like Zelena.

Belle swallowed. "The memories I have from Lacey," she said. "Made me think people in this world didn't like slavery." A lie. And not a lie. Lacey barely remembered anything from school. Belle wasn't sure if she knew there'd been a civil war in this country, much less what it had been fought over. But, Belle had learned enough on her own about this world to think it was a good point—and to remind Charming David Nolan believed it—maybe both sides of him believed it. If he would only listen to what she said instead of filling it in with what he thought she should say.

Hook rolled his eyes. "It's not slavery, it's the _Dark One._ Anyway, it doesn't matter. _You_ sent him away."

There was this much that was good about that conversation, Belle thought afterwards. Some of the terrible pain at sending Rumple away had eased. A little. Just a little.

She'd been angry and hurt when she did it. She'd been horrified at what she'd walked in on. Rumple had been about to murder a man, to murder Hook, the man Emma loved (whatever Belle thought of him personally). He'd lied to her. He'd deceived her—deceived everyone—He'd _hurt _them—

But, sending Rumple away was better than keeping him here.

If she'd kept him here, the others would insist she use the dagger to control him.

No, she thought. They'd already insisted on that. When they let Regina take the dagger. When Regina had given it to Belle instead of Rumple. That had been implicit, hadn't it? They'd put Zelena in a cell with a bed—and blanket—and lights and food and water. So, she could be comfortable while they figured out what to do with her.

Meanwhile, Rumple had been saved from Zelena. They let him out of his cage. He was allowed to change and clean up. They were even happy for him.

So long as he stayed on his leash.

Whatever was happening to him in the outside world (she knew he was alive or his name would have faded from the dagger, but that was all she knew), no one was controlling him, no one was _leashing _him, making him a slave with less freedom than the lowest beast.

_I only see the Beast. _Belle winced as she remembered those words.

Free the fairies, she told herself. Let them do what they were trained to, give the help they needed to give. Then, she could leave. She could find Rumple and be done with this.

And if he wanted nothing to do with her?

He wouldn't. It wasn't just what she'd told him at the border, that he'd never given up power—or anything else—for her. It was that she spent her nights haunted by other memories—the memory of the look on Rumple's face as tried to fight Zelena's command and told her to run, the pain and fear as he handed her his gun and told her to stay safe while he hunted Hook, the way he'd held her when he'd seen her alive after believing she was dead for so long—those memories told her she'd been wrong.

Wrong, she thought. Maybe not to send him away. But, for the reasons she sent him away. For what she'd said when she sent him away. For what she'd believed. And what she hadn't believed.

Why would he want anything to do with her?

She'd at least give him the things she should have given him before, things to make living in this world easier, bearable.

And the things that meant more to him, no matter what he said. Belle picked up the blanket and the leather ball. She looked through the small collection of photos from Baelfire's brief time in Storybrooke. More than money—more than the cane he wouldn't have been able to walk without—these were the things she should have given him—the things that, somehow, someday, she _would _give him.

And, after that. . . .

She supposed it didn't really matter. There were millions of people in this land. She'd be just one more of them, a face in the crowd, invisible, unimportant.

No Keiths troubling her, no irate neighbors blaming her for the miracles she couldn't produce. Ignored, she thought. Invisible—Invisible because they didn't know her and she didn't matter, not because they looked right at her and couldn't even see her. If she had no one to talk to, at least she wouldn't have to sit and listen to people who thought they were talking to her while ignoring everything she had to say.

And no one telling her she was better off.


	2. Night Calls

His name wasn't Will Bloody Scarlet.

Was there anyone who couldn't figure that one out? Who named a kid Will Scarlet? _Scarlet. _ Come on. Even the blokes in this world knew better, and they didn't even think he was real. They had maybe a dozen stories how Will Scarlet joined up with the Merry Men and got dubbed by Robin Hood. Most of them didn't mention how much drinking had been going on, but like it wasn't obvious.

But, hey, there were worse names. Tinkerbelle, for example. Or Hook. The bad jokes that could be made out of _Scarlet_ were absolutely nothing compared to the bad jokes that could be made out of _Hook, _even if you left out the dirty ones (not that he meant to). In this world, where stories had a way of turning out to be true, he wondered what the odds were some perverted pirate would go all Peeping Tom on kids parked in lover's lane and get his hook caught in the car door right before they hit the gas and tore it off. It had to be destiny, right?

All the same, there was a mindset that went with being _Will Scarlet_—the mindset that went with anyone willing to trot after Robin of Locksley, looking all cheerful while the Sheriff's men were shooting at you and having to mean it. It meant the right walk and the right talk. It meant a mouth that bypassed the brain and said, "Sure, let's go break into a dragon's castle and cart off her gold. She won't mind," or "Why wouldn't I want to break into a mental asylum and ask a girl there to go out with me? It's not like there's anything on telly." Above all else, it was the mindset that mattered—even if it was a mindset where you had to keep your brain turned off so it would never ask how you got so stupid_. _You had to think it and breathe it to make it work.

Mind you, the leather jacket helped.

So, call him Will Scarlet. He didn't mind. It beat Eugene Fitzherbert any day.

Will Scarlet was also the kind of love struck idiot—as in looks-up-with-his-mouth-open-when-it's-raining-till-he-drowns stupidity—who would get exiled to another world (the kind of world run by murderous witches, crime lord caterpillars, and jabberwockies who tried to kill you every other week) just to do right by the girl of his dreams, only to have her dump him or (oh, yeah, don't forget this part) throw him into another world.

So, he had no intention of getting involved with anyone in Storybrooke, Wonderland, Oz, Timbuktu, or anyplace else—especially not the woman stepping out of the pawn shop late that night. There was trouble in heels, no doubt about it. He was hanging out for purely business purposes only, thank you very much. Once Belle Gold closed the store and went home, there would finally be _no one _out on the street. All the stores would be empty, and an honest thief could do some late night shopping in peace.

He couldn't believe how long it was taking Mrs. Gold to lock the door. Could she not find the keyhole? What was her problem?

Calm, he reminded himself. Things always seemed to take longer when you got impatient. That's how idiots made mistakes (like ignoring the gold and taking something the dragon would _really _miss when you robbed her place).

But, that was when Keith decided to come along. Keith Notting, because no imagination was apparently part of the package deal if you were going to be an evil queen coming up with names for people. Now, Keith Snotting, that would have been a good name. Or just Keith Snott. Simple, easy to remember, and spot on.

Will had a moment to wonder why the town's most lecherous drunk (really, give the guy a few too many, and he'd come onto a lamppost) was wandering around town this far from The Rabbit Hole at this time of night. Maybe he'd staggered out by accident and been too drunk to find his way back. Then, he saw Keith-the-Snot coming up behind Mrs. Gold.

It wasn't his business, he told himself. It _really _wasn't his business. He remembered what happened the last time he and Mrs. Gold had met, and he had no desire to repeat it. It wasn't like he owed her anything.

But, then he saw Keith shoving her back into the doorway and snarling at her. Will caught pieces of it. ". . . . Stop being so high and mighty, now he's gone. . . . owe me for what he did. . . . be wishing he gave me the twenty minutes when I'm done. . . ." It got clearer the closer Will got. By the time Snotting said the last, Will was almost behind him.

He hadn't decided to get involved. He knew he hadn't. But, somehow, his feet decided otherwise. He should have known better than to trust them. They never were on his side.

Snot-for-brains Keith had a hand clamped over Mrs. Gold's mouth. He was pressing in tight against her. Will could see her trying to fight him off, but, she was pinned tight against the door. She hadn't seen Will yet. His feet had almost decided to bring him in close enough he would _have _to do something when Mrs. Gold pulled a hand free.

Will expected to see her hit Keith, to claw him, or even (this would be good) pull a gun on him. Instead, she reached for the door handle behind her. It swung inward. She was able to pull away, stepping out of Keith's grasp. But, the drunk staggered after her, swearing terribly (seriously, Will could swear better than that in his sleep. And probably had). Mrs. Gold grabbed something big and heavy and swung it at Keith. Keith didn't so much duck as stumble drunkenly under it. By rights, he should have collapsed on the floor and not gotten up, but Snotting's liver was putting up a tough fight, keeping him just sober enough to keep moving. He came up, fist clenched, and knocked Mrs. Gold to the ground in the half-second it took Will's feet to launch him at the man.

X

She should have stopped at Granny's and grabbed something to eat, Belle thought, as she fumbled with the keys in the pawn shop door. Her head throbbed as it did too often these days when she forgot meals. But, she could feel people looking at her at the diner and hear the whispers behind her back. It was getting worse. Or she was getting more tired. Either way, it was getting harder and harder to stare at a meal and pretend it meant nothing to her.

Still, she could have called up and asked Ruby to make her a lunch to takeout—or an afternoon snack—or dinner—or a late night snack. But, there was always so much to do. She'd given the Charmings five different potions this week and identified twelve different spells. She'd researched more mundane problems, like the town's census (to see if there was anyone else in town who shouldn't be there) and records on topography and geological surveys (to help the Dwarves). Today, she'd told herself she was finishing the inventory of potion supplies, trying to avoid angry, would-be customers.

Magic came with a price, she'd tried to explain to them. Just because Rumple wasn't there to demand it of them didn't mean it wouldn't come due. If it was something that could be taken care of without magic, she tried to point them in the right direction—Dr. Whale, Archie, the exercise and weight loss books in the library. But, the people she turned away were the ones who whispered behind her back or "accidentally" shoved her as they passed.

It wasn't just about Rumple. They'd been torn out of their lives and woken up after twenty-eight years in this town. They'd nearly been killed by witches, giants, and Peter Pan. They'd been sent back to their homes only to be torn out again and sent back to this land. The ice wall might be gone, but they still remembered Ingrid's curse. They remembered what it was to turn on their friends and family, screaming out whatever small hates had hidden in the dark corners of their hearts before just attacking the people closest to them.

Belle had slept through all that. She didn't know, _couldn't _know what it had been like—

"_I'm afraid," Rumplestiltskin said. She saw the fear in his eyes. More than that, she saw the pain as she turned against him, one more in a long line, forcing him over the line._

No, she couldn't know what that was like.

Her hands shook as she tried to find the keyhole. It was hard to think when her head hurt like this, hard to hold her hands steady when she hadn't eaten since—since—was it yesterday? She'd started to fix tea this morning, but the Sheriff had called. Someone had found what might be a memory stone of Ingrid's. Belle had turned off the stove and run over, hoping for some new revelation that would help them at last (it wasn't one of Ingrid's stones, it was just a bit of rose quartz from a sixth grader's science display that a second grade girl had stolen because it looked pretty, only to lie when she thought she was caught).

Finally, the key slipped into place and she was about to turn it when a man stepped up behind her.

"Hey, witch, remember me?" Keith, once the Sheriff of Nottingham said, shoving her up against the door, his hand clamping over her mouth. "Your boyfriend broke a deal with me. I've come to collect." He reached up under her skirt, fumbling to pull down her nylons and panties.

He meant to do it here, Belle realized, out here on the street. It was late. Drunk as he was, maybe he thought no one would see him, if he was thinking at all. Maybe he thought no one would care once they saw it was her.

Maybe he was right.

Belle tried to push him away, to get a knee in his groin, _something_. But, she could barely move.

Her arms were pinned back by his weight. His one hand was still held tight over her mouth and the other was still busy with her clothes (her struggles were doing this much good; drunk as he was, he couldn't seem to keep a good grip on her underclothes as he tried to pull them all the way down). She twisted, and his grip loosened for a moment. Belle pulled her hand free.

Space, she thought. If she just had space. Space to fight him, to grab something to defend herself, to just grab the phone and call for help. She grabbed the doorknob and pushed it open, backing away from him.

Keith lurched drunkenly after her. Belle grabbed a bronze bookend and swung. But, the fates seemed to have it in for Belle. He stumbled as he came at her. She missed him entirely.

But, he knew what she'd done. Or tried to do. Raging incoherently, he punched her in the face. Belle was knocked to the ground, losing her grip on the bookend. It slid across the floor, out of reach. She was stunned, knowing she should get up, get ready to fight; but her body wouldn't respond.

Then, she heard Keith cry out. She saw him crash to the ground, another man on top of him. The man's fist connected once with Keith's face, and Keith's eyes rolled up in the back of his head.

Will Scarlet, the man she'd last seen drunkenly curled up around a copy of T_hrough the Looking Glass, _a picture of the Red Queen torn out and clutched in his hand, had his fist drawn back, ready to land another blow. He stared at the unconscious man as though not sure what to do next. "What, that's it?" he said. He shook Keith. "Hey, Snotting," he said. "There's Robin Hood over there with his wife, Marian. They're making out. In public. Aren't you going to do something about it?" He shook Keith again. "Bloody hell," he grumbled, getting off him.

He looked over at Belle. She could see he was ready to say something flippant. She could almost see the bad joke coming together in his eyes, till he looked at her face and froze.

No, not her face. The side of her face. Where Keith had hit her. "Uh . . . hi," he said. He nodded towards her face. "Does that, uh, hurt? Much? I mean, I can see it hurts. But, is it bad? You want to go to hospital or something? The emergency clinic ought to be open if Whale's sober. Or you just want to call the sheriff?"

Belle looked at Keith and imagined calling Emma. Would she even be at the station or would she already be home? Or on a date with Hook? Would he come along with her if she called them? And what would he do when saw his good buddy lying unconscious on Belle's floor?

"No," she said. "We can't do that. Just—just let him go."

X

**Spoiler Warning: **I know it may not look like it at this point, but this is a Rumbelle story. Belle and Will are NOT going to become a couple. I feel like I really need to say that.


	3. Requiem

Will stared at Mrs. Gold. "Sorry, it sounded like you just said you didn't want me to call the sheriff." He looked at Keith uncertainly. "You planning on just burying him in the basement? Or, you're friends with the werewolf, aren't you? You giving her a midnight snack? Just make sure she gets rid of all of him herself, not that I ever eat the meat pies at Granny's. . . ."

Mrs. Gold shook her head. Will realized how tired she looked, like just that little head shake was the same as running a marathon—or more like collapsing at the end of the marathon. "I can't call the sheriff on him," Belle said, as if patiently explaining the obvious. "He's a friend of her boyfriend."

"Yeah, so? You're a friend of the sheriff's, ain't ya? Babysit her little brother all the time and stuff. Or is this some stupid hero thing? Let your enemies go and hope they'll be nicer next time? Speaking as someone with a _lot _of enemies, it doesn't work that way."

Mrs. Gold shrugged wearily. "It doesn't matter. She'll listen to him," Belle said. "She won't listen to me."

Will wanted to argue that, yes, it did matter. Storybrooke's sheriff might not be the brightest (she was a _sheriff_, just having that job title sucked off ten, maybe twenty IQ points—and that was after you were dumb enough to let someone stick you with the job in the first place), but she wasn't an idiot. And she didn't just stand around and let people get hurt (unless you counted taunting them with food when she had them in the town jail, not that Will had wanted to share a meal with her anyway. Talk about germs).

But, Mrs. Gold looked ready to collapse. And the bruise on her face needed ice on it right away while they were wasting time arguing. And he could already tell he could talk till he was blue in the face, he wasn't going to win this one. "Fine," he said. "But, we're leaving him in the alley. People don't ask questions about guys in the alley the way they do about guys outside your front door on Main Street."

Will dragged Snottingham out. He groaned a few times but didn't wake up. Will debated just dropping him in the alley. But, drunk as the Snot was, he'd probably be sick a few times before morning came. Mrs. Gold didn't look like she'd be happy to find the guy choked during the night. It would be like that market Will passed through in that village Robin's newest recruit, Mulan, came from. Will had seen a woman burning what they called "ghost money." He remembered the paper smelled of myrrh and incense. She'd found a dead cat by her market stall had found a cat dead by her stall and was burning the ghost money as an offering, to appease the cat and keep it from coming back as an angry spirit.

Of course, a couple years later, he'd heard about an angry demon rampaging through the place. But, that had been a dog, not a cat. So, maybe the ghost money worked.

He wasn't going to burn any offerings for Snotting no matter what he came back as. Better to just keep him alive. For now.

So, he propped him up in a sitting position, making sure he faced east (so he'd notice the sun first thing in the morning, when his hangover kicked in). Then, Will went back inside. He'd seen the small fridge in the back room on his way through with Snot. A quick check showed it had a single ice tray in its tiny freezer.

Will filled up a plastic bag and brought it out. He found Mrs. Gold leaning against the counter. She was shaking, her eyes closed. Aftershock, he told himself, pushing down a sudden lurch of fear. She was fine. She _had _to be fine.

Knowing that didn't keep the note of fear out of his voice. "Mrs. Gold?"

Her eyes flew opened and she went stiff, like a deer hearing the hunter's hounds. He saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at him uncomprehendingly, as if she were trying to remember who he was and what he was doing here.

Will held up the plastic bag. "I've got some ice," he said, trying to sound innocent and nonthreatening. "You want to put it on that bruise? And—and maybe lie down? Have a cup of tea?"

She looked at him as though she still didn't understand what he'd said. Then, slowly, his words seemed to sink in. She nodded warily, accepting the ice. Her hands shook as she took it from him. He remembered the way she'd struggled to get the door locked. Snot's attack hadn't helped, but this _wasn't_ just aftershock. "You can lean on me," he offered uncertainly. "Uh, I'm a married man," he added. "I'm not going to do anything that would make anyone think I'm like the Sheriff of Nottingham, all right?"

Mrs. Gold nodded slowly and took his arm, letting him help her. Watching her almost as warily as she did him, he helped her sit down on the small bed in back, just waiting for her to take that the wrong way. But, either Mrs. Gold was beginning to trust him (a little) or she'd used up all the fear she had. Will was betting on the latter. He remembered times like that. Oh, boy, did he remember them.

He found a couple of large, throw pillows that wouldn't have been out of place in a genie's lamp, and put them on top of the more ordinary pillow at the end of the bed. "You'll want to keep your head elevated," he told her. "It'll keep the bruising down."

There was a quilt folded up at the bottom of the bed. Will picked it up and started to tuck it gingerly around Mrs. Gold, trying not to scare her. That was when he saw the gaping hole in her nylons. It went from the side along her knee—about four inches wide, easily—and seemed to be getting wider as it vanished beneath the hem of her skirt a few inches above. Will tried to remember what could have happened during the brief fight. She hadn't even landed on that side when she fell down, had she? She didn't seem to be bleeding, at least. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Mrs. Gold looked down at her leg, to see what he was staring at. "What? Oh. No. Keith must have done that. When he. . . . At the door. He tried. . . ." She finished with a shrug. Not important, that shrug said. Didn't matter. Don't talk about it.

Will thought about going back into the alley and finding Snotting.

No. Mrs. Gold needed his help right now. And Snot wasn't going anywhere.

Will would take care of him later.

X

Belle pulled the quilt tight around her, covering her leg. She felt the cold right down to her bones, and the ice bag on her face wasn't helping. She tried to concentrate on the man fiddling around Rumple's shop. He was bigger than her, she thought. Much bigger. And he moved like a fighter. She wondered if she had traded Keith for something just as bad. Probably not worse. She didn't see how he could be worse.

Still, she made a small, protesting noise as he began looking through the cupboards. She knew some of the things (_some_, she thought bitterly) Rumple kept there.

"You have any food back here?" Will asked.

Food. Rumple had always kept a little back here, nothing fancy, just emergency supplies for late nights. Or for the town about to be annihilated, she thought, remembering him pouring her a drink at the end of the world.

_I didn't want to wake you up just to die, _he'd said. _But, I needed you. _She remembered the raw pain in his voice, the same pain she'd heard as she forced him across the town line.

Her own voice, ugly with anger, echoed in her memory. _I just wanted to be chosen._

_I needed you._

Most of the food was gone, nibbled on or spoiled. Bread molded fast in Maine's damp air. She'd meant to buy more, part of a growing list of things she'd had to put aside for bigger problems that kept getting in the way. "That cupboard, over there. I think there are some crackers. Maybe." While Will walked over, she looked at the alarm clock by the bed. Belle was too tired to leave. She might be too tired to get up and check if Will had locked the back door. She checked the setting on the clock-horribly early, but there was so much to get done-and switched it on.

Will opened the cupboard and found the large, nearly empty box. Looking inside, he said, "Yeah, I see the crackers, all five of them." He handed the box to her and began to fish through his jacket pockets. After a moment, he produced a plastic baggie with a squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Digging around in his other pocket produced a bag of peanut butter M&M's. He gave both to her.

Belle pushed back the plastic. The jelly, showing through the flattened bread, looked like a huge bruise. She wondered if her face looked any better. Then, the smell of it hit her, and her stomach clenched.

_Not fair,_ she thought. Her stomach was tied up in knots after—after what happened. Almost happened. _Hadn't _happened, she told herself firmly.

She'd been like this in the Ogre War. There had been days when the news was bad from the front or worse days when there hadn't been any news at all, when they could only watch the red haze of battle coming closer and hope. She remembered being sick with worry, unable to do more than pretend to eat her food. She remembered the terribly guilt she'd felt, knowing how their supplies were dwindling, but still unable to do more than cut it into smaller and small pieces, moving them around her plate. That's why she'd worn the yellow dress to that last council meeting. Normally, she needed to be corseted almost within an inch of her life to fit into it. That day, it had been the only one of her court dresses that didn't need to be taken in.

Belle thought she was thinner now than she'd been then. It was hard to tell. There'd been no scales in the old world, and so many of the tools they used to measure were different. All she knew for certain was that she hadn't felt her ribs the way she did now. She let the bruised sandwich drop back into her lap.

Will cleared his throat. "Don't tell anyone, but Much—he's one of Robin Hood's men—used to get sick after every fight. He was fine during them. But, after, the rest of us would be eating and celebrating, and he'd volunteer for sentry duty so he could get as far away from the food as possible.

"Marian used to fix him a tea. I don't know what all she put in it, but it had chamomile and mint. You've got some of that here. Let me brew it up for you. You shouldn't have regular tea, anyway. The last thing you need is more caffeine."

Belle was too tired to argue. But, for once, she wasn't sure she wanted to. He had a point, better than he knew. She practically lived on tea, these days, forcing herself to keep going. Chamomile and mint tea, her mother had made that for her when she was ill. "I'd appreciate that," she told him. "Thank you."

After a few minutes, Will handed her a cup (not the chipped one, she'd hidden that away where she didn't have to see it every day and could almost pretend it didn't mean anything to her). Belle took a sip and grimaced. "You put in too much honey."

"Not enough," Will said. "You need the calories from the look of you. And honey will settle your stomach, that's what my old auntie used to say. It's staying down, isn't it?"

Belle gave him a Look on principle, but he was right. The knots in her stomach were easing. She drank all the too-sweet tea in the cup as well as the second and third he poured for her. When she tentatively bit into the sandwich, it stayed down, too. Taking only small bites and chewing them slowly, she eventually made it through. The smell of chocolate was too much for her, though. She handed the M&M's back to Will. "Thanks," she said. "But, I can't."

Will didn't look happy, but he took them. Belle settled on finishing up the saltines while Will poured her another cup. "Do you always carry your lunch with you?" she asked.

"Oh, you know," Will said. "A bloke might find himself in a cell with a sheriff taunting him with pop tarts or pastrami. Better to be prepared. Or he might have been chased by someone with funny ideas about where his wallet might be and have to put it away for later."

Belle yawned. She had to get up and go home, she thought. But, she could still sit here just a little longer. "Why did you break into my library?" There were other questions behind that one. _Is it safe to let you be here, in this shop? Is it safe to be here with _you, _the madman who cries over story books?_

"Oh," he said. "That." He had the uncomfortable look of a man who didn't want to answer a question his conscience was telling him he should.

_Does he have a conscience? _Belle wondered. She didn't think he was lying—but she didn't think he was telling her the truth, either. Still, he'd saved her from the Sheriff of Nottingham, hadn't he?

She'd thought Rumple had saved her from the Queens of Darkness, once, that he'd given up a magic gauntlet he'd fought Merlin and the knights of the Round Table to gain. She thought he'd been willing to sacrifice it to save her life.

She'd been wrong.

"Everyone here has a story, don't they?" Will said. "Even if it's just that they're the stupid kid who lets the ogre into the house, so the hero can fight it later. My story's stupider than most. You've heard of Wonderland? Not just that book in your library. The place, the real place?"

Belle felt a chill, like someone stepping on her grave. "Cora lived there," she said. "The Queen of Hearts. She trapped the Mad Hatter in Wonderland till the curse took him away." She'd tried to murder Rumple to steal his power. She'd nearly done it, too.

And, when Cora was minutes away from killing him, all Rumple had wanted to do was talk to Belle. She had lost her memories and was confused—no, _terrified_—by the things she'd seen in Storybrooke. He'd used almost his last breath to try and help her make sense of her life, to understand who she'd been and to see herself as he saw her.

A hero, he'd called her. And the woman who'd loved him, who'd really, _really _loved him.

He'd lived. He always lived. Even when he hadn't, terrible as the cost had been, Rumplestiltskin _lived._ That was what she told herself each night when she crawled into bed or fell asleep over a pile of books, looking for answers. Even without magic, without money or anyone to help him, Rumple would be all right. Because he had to be. She couldn't keep going if she stopped believing that.

"Yeah, that's the place," Will said. "And that's Wonderland all over. What did somebody call it, once? A really _annoying _world. You have to be crazy to _want _to go there. But, I guess I was." He gave her a cocky, self-effacing grin. "Maybe I still am. There was this girl, Anastasia. Ana. You ever meet someone who, the moment you see them, you know you're whole life has changed, forever?"

Belle thought of a war ravaged castle, the smell of smoke and blood in the air, and the mocking salvation that had appeared when all hope was lost—even if it was at a price.

_It's forever, dearie._

"Yes."

Will looked at her, surprised. "Really? 'Cause, it wasn't like that when I met her. I _know _it wasn't. I said something stupid. I tried to act tough to this other guy—not because I was trying to impress her, just because I felt like it. Bloody hell, I was solid idiot from top to bottom. If she'd had any sense, she would have hit me over the head with a rock—there were a lot of rocks lying around, she could have had her pick—and stomped off. Don't ask me why she didn't.

"But, it's never like that when I look back. When I think about it, when I remember seeing her for the first time, all I can remember is that was the first time I knew there was a world with her in it. I know I didn't feel that way, then. I _know _it. But, it doesn't matter. I think about her and I feel it all over again.

"Ana, she wanted to run away to a new world, a place to start over. But . . . it's harder than you think, starting again. Being in a new world, having nothing, no friends, not even knowing the rules everyone else takes for granted—FYI, never make deals with giant caterpillars if you don't have to, it never ends well—well, like I said, it's a lot harder than you think. Ana was ready to give up, to go home.

"Only, then, this other bloke came along and offered her everything she'd ever wanted. Everything she thought she'd wanted. He made Ana a queen, the Red Queen of Wonderland. And, me, well, ask anyone over there, Will Scarlet was just a knave."

_It's harder than you think, starting again. Being in a new world, having nothing. . . . _Belle closed her eyes, feeling the dull pain in her cheek and jaw. _I just wanted to be chosen._

She heard Rumplestiltskin's voice answering back. _I needed you._

"I'm sorry."

Will looked embarrassed. "That wasn't the end of it," he said. "Things happened. A lot of things. I thought . . . I thought we'd got past it. All of it. Only I'm here and Ana's . . . not." He shrugged again.

"You got dragged here, when the curse was recast?" Belle asked.

"Uh . . . not exactly. See, I told you, I'm stupid. I'm _really _stupid. I thought we'd got past all our problems. Maybe we had. So, I went and dragged in some new ones. The Missus and me, we had a knock-down, drag-out fight. She threw me out, straight from one world into another. And, here I am. Until I find a way back to her. And I will."

Belle remembered the look on Rumplestiltskin's face as she forced him over the border. _Do you want to go back to her?_ She thought but didn't ask. _Why should you, after she did _that_ to you?_

She could barely keep her eyes open, exhaustion and shock catching up with her. Belle leaned against the pile of pillows. _Just for a moment_, she thought.

She imagined leaving Storybrooke and finding Rumple (alive and well, he _had _to be alive and well). She would bring as much gold and money and other valuables as she could fit into his car and the trailer she meant to attach to it. His spinning wheel, Belle thought muzzily, she mustn't forget Rumple's spinning wheel. Or Bae's blanket. Or the leather ball Bae had played with as a child. Or any of the few belonging's Neal had brought with him that were still in the small apartment that had been the only thing Neal was willing to accept from his father during the brief time he was here—Neal had tried to insist on paying rent. That argument hadn't ended well.

Or it was the only thing Neal had accepted until Rumple died to save them.

Although, in the end, Neal hadn't been able to accept that, had he? He had to give the gift back.

She had to give Rumple what was his. Even if it wasn't enough. Even if he spat in her face when saw her or ripped her heart out, a messier process in the World Without Magic. But, he had the right, didn't he?

After all, it was what she'd done to him.

X

Mrs. Gold barely noticed as the teacup slipped from her hand. Will caught it. He lifted her legs onto the bed, unbuckling the high heels and placing them neatly on the floor. He straightened the quilt and tucked her in. Will looked at her uneasily, feeling guilt for what he was about to do.

It wouldn't hurt her (or it wouldn't unless—_until_ she'd figured out what he'd done and knew she'd been betrayed. Again). But, it didn't make a difference, he told himself. He had to do this.

It wasn't like he could tell her what he needed.

Will didn't expect to get everything he wanted, not anymore. However fairy tales got written, he was pretty sure he was penned in on the losing side. But, there were some things he still had to try. With luck (the kind of luck he never seemed to have lately), maybe Mrs. Gold _wouldn't_ ever know what he'd done.

Will looked around. He had a store to rob.


	4. Tangled Webs

**Notes: **I am not really doing Queens of Darkness in this story. Maleficent appears but she's based more on the glimpses we had in the past three seasons and just about none of the hints we've had for the second half of season 4.

Also, I am not personally familiar with the New York Public Library, although I did look at a few pictures online. I wouldn't be surprised if they have a subbasement where things like furnaces and heating systems go, but I didn't actually see one on the floor layouts I could find online.

Keane's Bakery is a reference to Robert Carlyle's movie,_ Marilyn Hotchkiss' Ballroom Dance and Charm School. _

X

It hadn't been long ago—not long at all—that Rumplestiltskin had found his way to the subbasement of the New York Public Library to talk with a dragon.

He had wanted to linger in the library proper. The building, so he understood, dated back to the 19th century, to the height of the lords of industry, emperors in all but name, who had built this place with more extravagance and ostentatious display of wealth than the palaces of Fairy Land.

Belle would have loved it.

He shoved that aside. He wasn't the authority on what Belle would love, was he? Look how wrong he'd been.

_I wanted to be chosen._

He'd chosen her from the start, no matter how mockingly. She was the great treasure, the wonder, the _miracle_ worth all the lives of a kingdom. Like one of her well-loved tales, she was the noble-born daughter of a great knight for whose sake a valiant (or not so valiant) warrior would fight all the armies of darkness single-handed.

That the valiant warrior was small and scaled and had a tendency to giggle over the bodies of his foes was beside the point. That he laughed at the sight of Ogres running like so many fat chickens when, perhaps, he should have been busy slaughtering them was a personal foible, nothing more. They were defeated. They were gone. They weren't coming back anytime soon.

And he would do it all again and more, if she would just look at him the way she used to. . . .

Not that it mattered, now. Not that it had ever mattered. The people of this world spun a pretty whimsy out of the old tale of a princess and a loathsome frog—repulsive, slime green, warts growing over its diseased flesh like a moldering fungus, and corpse-cold—but even they knew the true story. In the tale they never told the little ones still innocent enough to believe in their happy endings, the princess hated the frog and loathed it all the more for its desperate, pathetic efforts to win her love. In the end, overwhelmed with disgust, she threw it against the castle walls, smashing it to pulp.

The story had amused him when he'd first read it here. How else did they thing it could have ended?

How else indeed?

Zelena had murdered his son. Rumplestiltskin had destroyed his own mind to keep Bae from death. He had given up his freedom, letting himself be caught in Zelena's obscene web to try and hold onto him—

For nothing. Everything he'd done, everything he'd endured, it was for nothing.

But, even now, even knowing how it would end, he would he do the same. He saw himself holding his dying son on the cold ice beneath a winter moon, he tried to imagine fighting for the dagger instead of Baelfire—to save Belle, to save himself, to save all of them—and he couldn't. He was weak and a coward, but Rumplestiltskin couldn't let the last sight of his dying child be of his father choosing that cursed blade over him again, no matter the cost.

And he couldn't let Zelena live, not after everything she'd done. Couldn't the Charmings see that? She would have torn the life out of their infant son, gutting him with magic the way the Huntsman had gutted deer with his knife but with far less love and not a drop of mercy. Gods, he would have _helped _her. At her command, he had traced the patterns of the spell in the earth, he had torn the newborn babe from his mother's arms, he had placed him on the cold ground to die before taking his own place in the circle of sacrifice.

They would have let her live. They would have given her chance after chance until Zelena destroyed them all.

And they leashed him like a dog. They didn't even murmur an objection as Zelena's sister picked up the dagger and ordered him like a trained beast.

He could not let Zelena live and, knowing there was a way to be free of the dagger's curse, he had to take it.

_I chose you_, he silently told Belle. _I always chose you._

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Even for the most loving of princesses, the story always ended the same way. No matter what she promised, no matter how she tried to endure, there would always be a moment when she saw the truth, when the touch of the loathsome frog became too much for her to bear.

_Now, I see only the beast._

Rumplestiltskin found the room he had been looking for. Odds and ends, long forgotten by the world above, were stored here, covered in dust, lying haphazardly around an ancient, unused furnace. It had the look of a magical fortress, he thought, a dark wizard's redoubt forged from black iron.

"Maleficent," he whispered. "I summon thee."

With a blaze of fire, the furnace roared to life.

X

Will settled on Tom Clark's store for all his one stop shopping needs. It was close to the pawn shop, had a good selection, and (most importantly) was easier to walk around in after closing without the neighbors noticing than the supermarket.

They may not have had security systems in the old world, but Will had snuck past his share of magical defenses and killer guardians. Compared to that, Tom's security code (7VII) wasn't even a challenge.

Once inside, he grabbed a bag and started going through his list. A couple boxes of saltines—check. A few cans of soup (the flavorless, cheap stuff—easy on the stomach—and the kind meant to for people with working taste buds)—check. The bread Tom stocked was about 50% preservatives and 50% Styrofoam. It could sit there for years without going bad. Will ignored it. But, the donuts came fresh every day from Keane's Bakery. There were a couple of twists left, an old fashioned, and an apple fritter. Will left the apple fritter. He grabbed some peanut butter and jelly. He checked over the fruit, but the stuff looked ready for a compost heap (never trust a man who always had a cold to notice when food went bad). So, instead, he grabbed some juice and ginger ale. And nylons. He couldn't forget the nylons.

Will shifted things around on most of the shelves, trying to hide that anything was missing, until he got to the beer. Tom had a good selection. That was something you could always count on with Dwarves. But, Will needed to find just the right stuff. He had what _looked _like the right one, but he held it up to the faint light coming from the street lamps outside to be sure. Yep, Emsworth Homebrewed. It was a local brew. They didn't produce that much, and what they did make was almost entirely bought up by places like Granny's (rumor had it Granny paid in pies and brownies, as well as cash, to make sure she kept her most-favored-customer status) . Tom's was the only place that sold it off the shelf.

This time, Will shoved a couple boxes of the other brands to the side, to make it look like someone had been searching. He thought about making it more obvious—maybe leave some empty bottles or even break a few?—but it was better to keep things simple. With his luck, a passing bag lady would hear the glass breaking and call the cops before he made it out of the store. Besides, the Dwarf hadn't been born who wouldn't notice if his beer was missing. All Will had to do was make sure the trail led back where it should.

Will walked over to the counter. The drawer of the cash register was open and empty. The money would be locked up for the night in a safe somewhere. That was all right. Will wasn't taking any. He dropped three twenties into the open drawer. If the beer wasn't enough of a clue, this ought to help Tom figure things out.

As a final touch, Will checked the break room. As he'd hoped, Tom had some of Keane's bread back a there for himself (Will wondered if the bread out front had been sitting there for twenty-eight years. Had anyone ever been desperate enough to buy it?). He also found some of Keane's English muffins. Of course, that meant he had to go back for butter.

Will went over his list one last time then checked over the store. It looked good. All right, then. He hit the security code and exited. Once he was outside, there was just one more thing to do. He got out Snottingham's wallet again. Yeah, there was Snotty's ID. There was also another hundred dollars left, plus a few smaller bills and some change.

Will pocketed the five twenties and left the rest, so it wasn't too obvious Snotty had been cleaned out. Then he dropped the wallet just outside the pharmacy's back door where Tom would find it in the morning. Knowing Tom, he might even call the sheriff to report the lost wallet before he stepped inside and put together the rest of the story Will had given him.

Snottingham was still sitting in the back alley when Will got back to him. As expected, Snotty and his stomach's contents had parted ways. Will got out the Emsworth Homebrewed. He poured some of it down the sewer (a crying shame, but it had to be done) and some of it down Snotty's shirt (it smelled a lot better than the stuff Snottingham had spewed onto it). Then he wrapped Snotty's hands around the empty bottles, one by one, making sure there were plenty of fingerprints, before leaving them littered around him, dropping the last one in his lap.

If Tom called the sheriff tomorrow—and he would—she would come checking for Snotty. If she decided to check the alley (and Will thought he could make sure of that), she'd find a hung-over drunk lying in a pool of Tom's beer. Even Snottingham wasn't stupid enough to explain he'd been attacking a woman instead of robbing a store.

Besides, odds were, he wasn't getting charged with anything. Sure, it looked like Snotty had waltzed in after hours. But, he'd paid, hadn't he? And he was one of Sheriff Swan's boyfriend's pals, wasn't he?

Which was just as well. Mrs. Gold wouldn't feel some crazy, heroic urge to go in and clear him if he got off with a slap on the wrist and a warning.

_Heroes, _he thought with disgust. They'd tell you to ignore it if someone stabbed you through the heart. Then they'd tell you you were a beast and hang you out to dry if you tried to stop someone from stabbing them. The only smart thing to do was steer clear of the lot of them.

That's what Will meant to do when he went back into the pawn shop. He put away the food and put the nylons on the table at the head of the little bed where he'd left Mrs. Gold. That was it. He was going to leave. If Mrs. Gold ever figured out Tom's wasn't the only place he'd pocketed an item or two, he wasn't going to be around to hear about it.

Then he made the mistake of looking at her. She was so small—small and thin. Even in her sleep, he could see the dark shadows under her eyes. Her face was gaunt, the bones pressing against the skin. He'd bet good money, if anyone wrote books tiny enough to fit (and if Mrs. Gold didn't kill anyone who checked), her ribs were sticking out enough to use as shelves. Bloody hell, she was supposed to have friends, wasn't she? There was the man-eating werewolf and her heavily armed grandmother, not to mention all the little kiddies coming in for story time and, oh, yeah, the completely insane royal family and their tart-eating daughter. She even had a drunken Dwarf in her corner. Didn't any of these people notice something was off?

It wasn't his business, not anymore. Look what happened when tried to play the hero. People wound up dead. Little kids who didn't understand magic made wishes for things they couldn't have and paid for it with their lives.

Getting Mrs. Gold breakfast, framing Snotty, that was more than anyone had any right to expect from him. It was time to get moving.

OK, he could make sure the shades were in place and the curtains were drawn. And he might as well make sure the alarm was off on that stupid clock—if anyone needed to talk to Mrs. Gold, they could do their part and come looking for her instead of expecting her to get up and come looking for them. She looked like she'd run herself ragged long enough.

And . . . Will had been trying not to think about magic. He thought about the things he needed and how he would get back to the woman he loved, but that as far as he went. It made life easier. He was just Will Scarlet, a thief and a Knave. He wasn't—he didn't—he tried not to think about being something else, about being bound by magic and forced to do whatever his master demanded, even when it was a wish he would have died rather than grant.

He thought of brown eyes, empty and lifeless, staring at nothing.

He thought of blue eyes, confused and full of pain as the woman he loved was struck from behind, reaching out to him as the life drained away from her.

He should leave.

He didn't. There were charms in the room. He knew enough to recognize the ones made to protect the store and the people inside it.

It was safer, he told himself as he put them in place. What protected Mrs. Gold would protect him. That was the only reason he was doing it.

He settled down on the floor. He'd slept on worse—he'd been locked up in worse, sometimes by people who just had to share their ideas about how the execution in the morning should go. Anyway, it was better than sharing the alley with Snotty.

Will closed his eyes and tried to forget about the rest of the world. It was quiet and dark. The only thing he heard was the soft, almost silent sound of each of Mrs. Gold's steady breaths.

X

Not long before—not long at all—flames in a black furnace shaped themselves into eyes, the bright orange of iron ready to be shaped, blinking against the white heat.

"Rumplestiltskin," the flames rumbled. "What do you want?"

"The same thing you do, dearie," he said. "A way home."


	5. A Bad Wish

It was late when Belle dragged herself out of bed. Late by her standards. Outside, she could hear Storybrooke just beginning to stir. But, there was so much to do. There was always so much to do. She tried to remember if she'd set the alarm last night. She thought she had. Maybe she'd tried to set it and turned it off instead? It was hard to remember anything except how afraid she'd been and how tired.

It wasn't as if she needed to remember the details from day to day. There were things she knew would happen. Sleeping in didn't change them. Every morning, Belle woke with her stomach churning, her mind already putting together to-do lists and struggling to make a plan to get everything taken care of. There were potions to be brewed and research to be done. There were more magical items to be inventoried and tested as she searched for answers. If the alarm had gone off when it was supposed to, there were a couple more grimoires she could have looked through. That's what she needed to be doing, researching the hat or any kind of related magic, trying to find a solution.

And the library. It was past time for her to be at the library, pulling the books people wanted on hold, putting away the ones they'd returned, organizing displays. Storybrooke's schools regularly sent her lists of all the things the students would be needing so she could get them out ahead of time and have them ready.

She tried to tell herself she needed to hurry, she needed to get moving and make up for lost time. But, for once, she didn't want to be in the library. Its hours were short enough to begin with. Belle was the only librarian. She'd had some volunteers who helped with shelving and some of the other work, but they'd melted away these past weeks. There'd been talk of getting other workers, but all that had been tabled once Rumplestiltskin was exiled.

_Come on, you can do this, _Belle told herself. But, she kept remembering when she was first working on opening the library and Hook had shown up, attacking her. Back then, she'd been able to call Rumple, and he'd come for her. Now, she imagined being in the library, looking up, and seeing Keith's drunken, angry face looking down.

Maybe the sheriff would come if Belle managed to call her. Maybe she wouldn't, distracted by something more important.

Maybe Belle should get Rumple's gun.

How would last night have gone if she'd had it? Better? Worse? Belle tried to imagine being responsible for ending another life and what would happen after.

_(She didn't have to imagine. She only had to close her eyes and remember Rumple at the town line. She already knew)_

Belle tried to imagine explaining to Sheriff Swan why Keith was dead and imagined Emma, shaking her head in bafflement, not understanding a word she said. Emma would probably call it a lovers' quarrel right before she tossed Belle in a cell and threw away the key, the same way she'd called what Belle did to Rumple heroic.

Belle wanted to throw up.

Instead, she dragged herself out of bed. That was when she saw the pack of nylons left by the lamp. There was a note stuck to it.

_Mrs. Gold,_

_I picked up some stuff for you. You looked like you could use it. The food's in the cupboards. _

_Will Scarlet_

_P.S. I saw the sheriff drag Keith away on a drunk and disorderly charge early this morning. Seems like he broke into some place besides yours last night. That ought to keep him out of your hair for a day or two. _

Belle turned the letter over in her hands. Then she picked up the nylons. They were nothing fancy, not like the colored or patterned tights Belle often wore, but they were a kindness when it felt like so long since anyone had given her one—a kindness she actually needed, not just the barbed thanks everyone seemed to think she should have—or the vicious kindnesses they thought she _should _need, like pushing Keith at her and telling her to forget all about the man she'd married and given her heart to.

Belle pulled out her phone. The library was going to stay closed today. She would try to do the things that_ had_ to be done but she was not pushing herself beyond that. Just for today, she would eat a meal and rest, and then and only then would she see if she could find a way to keep the world from falling apart.

X

Belle had decided on Granny's, despite the food Will Scarlet had left her. Hot food and maybe a chance to talk to Ruby like a normal person. But, the surge of energy she'd felt when she'd made the decision in the shop was already beginning to fade by the time she reached the diner. Ruby had worked a double-shift last night and had been given the morning off. By the time one of the waiters (not Granny, she was busy in back) had put a plate of pancakes and a glass of milk down in front of her, Belle was ready to go back and curl up in bed. Just cutting her food and taking a bite seemed like more work than she could handle. But, she knew she needed to eat and she thought she might feel better once she'd forced it down. So, she tried not to think about Keith or Will or any of the other problems she was putting off while she forced herself to chew and swallow.

She'd go back home after this, she promised herself. She'd curl up in bed and rest just for a little while. The hat, the fairies, everything, it could all wait for just a little while.

That's what she was telling herself when she heard an angry, accusatory voice shouting at her. "There you are!" Hook said. Belle looked up and saw him bearing down on her.

"Not now, Captain," she said, looking back at her meal.

"Yes, now, 'Mrs. Gold,'" Hook said her married name with a sneer. He did that now when he was getting ready to make demands of her, reminding her that she was married to the man who had almost killed him, who'd almost destroyed Emma, and may have destroyed Blue and all the other fairies. "While the rest of us are working on solving the town's problems, you're here wasting the day away. Why aren't you at the shop?"

The shop. Not _her _shop. He made it sound like she was hired help and he was the owner. Belle thought about pointing that out to him but she was too tired for whatever petulant argument Hook came up with. "I'm eating breakfast, Captain."

"This late in the morning? What have you been doing with yourself all day? Never mind. Leave that. I need you at the shop."

Then, appearing as if from nowhere, Will Scarlet walked into the diner behind Hook. "Let me guess," Will said. "You're trying to scare the lady away so you can make off with her pancakes once she's gone. That's low even for you. If you're that desperate to hustle up a meal, why don't you try begging on a street corner? Get yourself a tin cup and go to it. Or head down to The Rabbit Hole and offer to tell anyone the story of how you lost your hand if they buy you a drink. Oh, wait. You've run out of people who haven't heard it, haven't you?"

Hook glared at him. "This has nothing to do with you."

"That's funny, cause it's got nothing to do with you either. Or did I miss the news and you're our new breakfast cop? Did the sheriff send you out to round up a gang of Pop Tarts for her? Dangerous work. Watch out for the strawberries. Those blokes are nasty."

Hook drew himself up importantly. "Gold, here, is going to help me—"

"Oh, is she? Why? Because you asked so nicely?"

"She _owes _me. After what her husband did to me—"

"Get off it. It's the same thing you sat back and watched Cora do to hundreds of people. It's the same thing you did to that princess, Aurora. So don't get all high and mighty on the rest of us."

"_Don't get all high and mighty?_" Hook sounded outraged. Or Belle thought he was trying to sound outraged. Instead, the fight seemed far away and unimportant. It was as if she were watching an actor practicing his lines, pushing for a few more points of melodrama. She just wanted to finish eating and leave. She didn't see how to do either with Hook standing between her and the door, posturing.

The captain went on the offensive. "Do you know what it's like having your heart ripped out of you, being forced to help your worst enemy—"

Will rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, been there, bought the t-shirt. Did a better job than you fighting back. But, maybe that's cause I don't _like_ hurting people. Anyhow, the Dark One didn't turn you into an arse. You did that all on your own."

"Why you—" The pirate spluttered. Unable to find a counterargument, he raised his hook, ready to go after Will.

_Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, _Belle remembered the quote (though not where she'd read it). Of course, if that were true, she had to wonder what it said about Storybrooke.

Will, for his part, looked ready to rip the oversized fishhook off the captain's arm and shove it up his nose—or maybe someplace more painful—when Granny pushed Hook away. Being Granny, she put her heart into it. Hook went sprawling onto the floor. Granny stood over him. She didn't have her trademark crossbow—but she_ did_ have a really big meat cleaver in her hand.

"That's enough, Killian," she said. "If you can't leave my customers in peace, you can get out of here."

Granny was a made-wolf—an important difference in werewolf circles—not a born one. She didn't change any more when the moon was full and bright. But, everyone was pretty sure she still had her wolf strength—or maybe she'd always been like this, tough as oak roots. Hook looked like he was thinking about testing whether the old woman was stronger than him, but common sense won out. Belle felt a moment of surprise. It was more than she'd expected of him. But, no, she thought. It wasn't common sense. Hook liked to play the crowd, and the crowd in Granny's was against him.

It didn't mean he wouldn't try again later.

Granny glanced at Will Scarlet. "Friend of yours?" she asked Belle, fingering the cleaver meaningfully.

"He can stay," Belle said neutrally. "I'd like to talk to him."

Granny nodded curtly. "Good enough. I'll get him some pancakes." She fixed her eyes on Will. "Give her any trouble, and I'll show you how we grind up hamburger for meatloaf."

Will sat down. "Told you I don't trust the meat pies," he said as Granny marched back into the kitchen.

"I—I think she's watching out for me," Belle said uncertainly. It wasn't the first time since Rumple was gone that someone had tried to help her, but it was the first time she could remember feeling like what they did helped—or the first time since Will had given her food and a new pair of stockings. She looked at him uncertainly. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked. "Did you really have your heart torn out?"

X

Evidence that a Knave is losing it: He picks two fights in less than 24 hours on behalf of the same woman who doesn't even know his real name. OK, nobody here did. That wasn't the point.

For a moment, Will had had thought Granny would toss him out with Hook. He could already tell his day would have been a whole lot easier if she had. Instead, he'd seen the worried look she'd given Mrs. Gold right before agreeing to let him plant himself in a booth and stick around. The Dark One might not have been welcome here if he'd shown up, but his wife clearly was.

In fact, there was no reason not to get lost. Will could shove off, and Granny would see to it Mrs. Gold was fine. She could even eat the pancakes Granny was getting for him, a little something for everyone.

Except . . . he'd heard the way Hook spoke to Mrs. Gold, ordering her around—as if he had the _right _to order her around, as if she were a good-for-nothing-slave and he were a much-wronged master. Granny might not have heard all that—she'd been in back, and even wolf ears couldn't have heard them over a noisy kitchen and a diner full of chatting customers. But, there were people all around who must have heard him and none of them looked like they were arguing. Maybe they just didn't want to stand up to the pirate—or stand up to the sheriff's boyfriend (the sheriff could say whatever she bloody pleased about playing fair, Will didn't buy it).

Or maybe none of them wanted to stand up for Mrs. Gold.

Meanwhile, Mrs. G was asking him a question. "Did you really have your heart torn out?"

All right, he hadn't been expecting that one. He looked at her worried, tired eyes, trying not to feel guilty. He'd got Keith sent to jail and he'd turned off her alarm. It wasn't his fault if she hadn't gotten any sleep—it _wasn't. _He tried to concentrate on her question: had he had his heart torn out?

_Yeah, _he almost told her, before his brain got ahold of his tongue,_ And in so many different ways._

Instead, he shifted uncomfortably, swallowing the bad joke. "Uh, I guess you could say that."

She looked up at him with something . . . it looked almost like _defeat _in her eyes. "Was it Rumplestiltskin?" she asked.

He wondered how many people had told her about deals the Dark One had made since the guy was exiled? He wondered how much they left out? Maleficent was no angel, but Will could think of some important things he could leave out of the story about a certain mirror he might-have-sort-of-maybe-kind-of helped get out of her castle that would make her look worse (like that it had been stolen, and whose idea it had been to steal it, and—the big one—that, instead of blasting Robin Hood's camp to a small cinder, Maleficent had just told them to keep the gold but warned them that the mirror was nothing but trouble).

"What, the Dark One?" Will scoffed. "Not even close. You said you know about Cora, didn't you?"

Mrs. Gold shuddered and nodded. Yeah, that was most people's reaction to Cora once they got to know her. Or once they found the bodies. Or the stuff she'd torn out of the bodies. Why couldn't her majesty collect stamps or comic books or something else that couldn't be carried in squishy packages that leaked red?

Will decided not to mention the packages. People were eating. "She was in Wonderland—I told you about Ana and me going there, right? I met her after Ana decided to—" his voice caught a little, "—to marry someone else.

"It _hurt,_" he whispered. Part of him wanted to take it back as soon as he'd spoken. There was more truth in those two words than in everything else he'd said to her since clobbering Snotty. Not that he'd lied. But, as someone who was way too full of himself had once said, there's difference between not lying and honesty of the heart.

But, it seemed like, once honesty found its way in, it was going to rip everything out of him it could. He couldn't shut up. "Every day, I woke up thinking _this_ is the day, this is the day she'll come back to me. I knew it was stupid. What did she have with me? Nothing but being on her own and friendless with loser who ruined her dreams and took everything from her. And what did she get in return for everything she gave up? Life with me. Nobody—not the Dark One or Hook or Snotty—ever talked some girl into a worse deal." He'd known how bad it was. The woman he loved would have to be an outright idiot to come back to him. And, if there was one thing she'd never, ever been, it was stupid.

Knowing that didn't help.

"But, I kept hoping. I thought she'll leave all that and come looking for me. Because, what we had, it was better than gold or magic or power or anything else anyone could give her. Or it had been. Or I thought it had been. But . . . she didn't. She never came.

"So, by the time I met Cora, having a heart didn't seem like such a great idea."

Mrs. Gold looked horrified. That meant she understood what he was saying, even if she didn't want to. "You're saying—you don't mean—you _asked _Cora to take your heart?"

Oh, yeah, smart lady. But, it wasn't a simple yes-no-maybe. Oh, Cora had played him. But, he'd known she was doing it and he still made that deal with her. In the end, who had really asked who?

And where was the honest answer in that mess?

He went with not-lying instead, something that sounded like an admission but wasn't. "Well, it's not like I knew what she was going to do with it, did I?"

Did you ever know when you gave someone your heart? In the end, the one he'd really given it to was the woman he loved, and look where that got him. Not that he hadn't had it coming.

He went on with the story, skipping the messy bits about feelings and what he had—and hadn't—been thinking. "The queen wanted a Knave, a Jack-of-All-Trades," he said. "Someone who could fight alongside soldiers, hunt down her enemies, spy on her friends, and pick a few pockets in places her people normally couldn't go." Put that way, it sounded almost innocent, didn't it? Nothing ugly or terrible, nothing to give anyone nightmares where they woke up screaming.

"But . . . you said you fought her?" There was a desperate hope in her voice. Who for? Hook, to believe he'd had a chance to fight Rumplestiltskin? Or someone else in the long list of Cora or Regina or her husband's victims? Or was she just feeling sorry for him?

Yeah. Right.

Whoever it was, there wasn't much he could give her. "A little. But, there's not a lot you can do about it. When Cora wanted someone dead, she usually had a good story for the soldiers she sent out—said someone was a murderer or a child-killer or something like that—but finding out she was lying didn't change much. You can fight the vague orders or the general ones, but. . . . Look, if Cora held my heart and she told me you were holding up Granny's and to go knock you down and put you in handcuffs, I'd do it and I'd _believe _you were holding up Granny's even if I saw you here eating pancakes. I'd believe it even if I found you asleep over a book over at the library. That's how it works.

"Although, if you're asking if that's how Hook got his lovely disposition, like I said, getting your heart stolen doesn't make you into an arse. He's got no one to blame that on but himself."

"I don't care about Hook," Mrs. Gold ground out. She bit her lip for a moment, obviously deciding whether or not she should say what came next. "Do you—you said you knew a little about magic. Do you . . . do you know anything about how the Dark One's curse works?"

Will felt alarm bells going off in his head. "Uh, if you're talking about breaking it, that's way beyond anything I was ever up to." _And, if you're talking about passing it onto someone else to use his power— _

"No, not that," Belle said. She looked down, studying what was left of her meal. At least, she'd managed to eat a fair share of it. She might even finish if no more idiots like Hook came along and interrupted. "Do you—do you know anything about—about what it's like? Being controlled by the dagger?"

"Oh. Got it." No, he didn't get it. He didn't know why she was asking this and he didn't want to. But, that didn't seem like enough to keep him from answering. First his feet last night, now his big mouth. Was there any other part of him lining up to sell him out? No, don't answer that. "Did you ever know Sydney Glass?" Will asked. "He used to write for The Daily Mirror."

"The town paper? No, I haven't met him, not in this world. If I met him in the old one, he had a different name. Do you know who he was there?"

"Once upon a time, he was a genie."

"A genie? You mean granting people wishes and so on?"

"Yeah, that. He got freed by Snow White's father. Long story. Never mind. It didn't turn out too well. Thing is, back when I was in Wonderland, there was this other genie, Cyrus, and. . . . No, that's a long story, too. OK, there was this girl, Alice, who had three wishes. She traded one to a certain Knave of Hearts—" Will gave a small bow, "—in return for helping her rescue her true love. That would be Cyrus, the genie. Alice used the two wishes she kept to save some other people—she had a thing about that—and I, uh, the wish that was left, it got used, and, uh. . . . Look, you want to be careful when you're making wishes. Those things backfire like you wouldn't believe. Cyrus got freed. He wasn't a genie anymore. Only it wasn't exactly that he'd been _freed._ It was more like the wish decided he'd _traded places _with the ars—uh, with the bloke stupid enough to make it."

"_You_ were a genie?"

Will shrugged. "I didn't make a career out of it, if that's what you mean. Jack-of-all-trades, remember? See, Cyrus and his brothers had been cursed to become genies when—never mind, even longer story. Just know that, once Cyrus got free, he was able to fix things with the one who'd cursed them and, poof! Three less genies, three more normal blokes, simple as that.

"But, before that happened . . . well, let's just call it a learning experience. Genies are the slave of whoever gets ahold of their bottles and pops 'em open. It's only for the three wishes, and then it's back in the jug till next time. But, it's still a lot worse than someone holding your heart. This wizard, Jafar, and a monster called the Jabberwocky—she could see into your mind and find whatever you were most afraid of—they captured Ana. She'd gotten ahold of the bottle. They couldn't take it from her—not and have it do any good—till she'd used up the wishes. So, they tortured her till she did." Another long story and an ugly one. Jafar had put her in a cage while the Jabberwocky tore Ana's mind apart—the Jabberwocky didn't just _see _fear, she _fed _on it—and you got to relive all of it while she was munching on you. Bel—Mrs. Gold didn't need to hear that. He kept it simple. "After what the Jabberwocky did to her, she couldn't even think of wishes to protect herself. She just did whatever they told her.

"And, seeing it, being there, it didn't make whit of difference. I couldn't. . . . It's not like you don't know where this is going. They were only keeping her alive till she'd used her wishes. You could see it in their eyes. It was so obvious, Snottingham could be too drunk to remember his own name and _he'd _have figured it out. They were going to kill her as soon as they were done. Knowing that _didn't change things_. I _had_ to do what my master said." Nobody ever asked him about this, not ever. And, before walking in here, he would have said he wouldn't tell them if they had. But, now he'd started, he wanted Mrs. Gold to understand—he _needed _her to understand. Another story came pouring out. It was another not-lie, the truth but not the truth—because there was no other way he could tell Mrs. Gold and, suddenly, he needed to. It burned him as fiercely as anything he'd ever felt—for friends, for family, for his wife—in his life.

"Before all this," he said. "When the genie thing first happened, there was this kid, Lizard, she was called." He thought about a child with trusting brown eyes. He thought about those eyes changing, growing empty as the life inside them faded away. How could such simple wishes—things any child had a right to at least _ask_ for, whether or not they got it—go so terribly wrong? "She got ahold of the bottle. It didn't matter if we'd been mates for years or if I'd always looked out for her even when Cora was around, giving orders. It didn't matter that—that she was _just a kid._ She made a bad wish, and it killed her. I couldn't stop it. If Jafar had had control of me and he wished for me to put a dagger through Anastasia, through my wife, I'd have done it. I couldn't have stopped myself.

"That's what it's like being a genie. From what I know about magic, it's even worse being the Dark One. If you're a genie, your master only commands your magic. If you're the Dark One, your master commands _you_. You can't argue, you can't fight it." He tried to think of another example, to help her understand. "You ever read the Harry Potter books? You know how Dobby the House Elf has to beat himself up whenever his masters want him to? Same thing. If your master tells you to iron your fingers, till they're all nice and crispy, and sing while you do it, that's what you do." Will stopped. What was wrong with him? If it was a choice between truth of the heart and not lying, Mrs. Gold looked like she could enjoy option number three, the sound of silence. "Er, but you've got to know this, right? Weren't you married to the Dark One?" He meant the question innocently (well, innocently for him). He wasn't prepared for how Mrs. Gold changed. And he'd thought she'd looked dead before.

X

_Married._

Belle flinched as Will tossed that word at her. _Weren't you _married _to the Dark One. _And the rest of it. _You've got to know this, right?_

She had. She hadn't. She—

She'd been married to Rumplestiltskin, and she hadn't let herself know.

_Married._

Past tense.

_It's over, _she thought. _Everyone in Storybrooke knows it's over. Even the man who told me he didn't know better than to ask Cora to rip his heart out can see it._

_But, it's not. Even if no one else believes it. Even if _Rumple _doesn't believe it, I'm still his wife. Forever. I promised him forever._

She tried to believe it. But, people who promised forever—people who _kept_ their promise of forever—didn't throw their husbands to the wolves, then turn their backs on them, and walk away.

All the same, Belle tried to argue with the truth. "I—I'm still married to him." The words were barely more than a whisper. She didn't know if Will even heard her. "I didn't. . . ." Belle closed her eyes, remembering the look on Rumplestiltskin's face as he'd struggled to save his son from Zelena, letting the dagger slip from his grasp. She remembered the anguish in his voice when he told her to run, that Zelena knew they were trying to get him away from her. She knew. The power of the dagger, how it enslaved Rumple, she_ knew_. There was no reason to have asked Will. And, if none of the rest had happened, she'd seen what happened when she sent Rumple away.

_I'm afraid._

She put down her fork, her appetite gone, stomach churning once again. "I shouldn't have. . . ." _I shouldn't have sent him away like that, without even giving him a chance to explain. I shouldn't have sent him away with nothing but the clothes on his back, thinking I hated him. I want to find him, to set everything right._

As if she could. As if this was something anyone could fix.

But, she couldn't leave till she'd finished, till she'd taken care of the things that only she could take care of.

_And what if I can't? What if I waste the rest of my life here, trying to fix what can't never be set right?_

Already, there was another crisis, and Belle had ignored it. Because Hook was unbearable. Because she wanted to finish one meal in peace.

"I have to go," Belle said. "I have to at least see what Hook was talking about. It may be something serious."

Wearily, trying to ignore how hard it was just to stand, Belle got up and headed back to work.

X

Not long before, Gold had managed the long trip back to Maine and back to the town that was and wasn't there. He stood at the border, holding a small, cast iron figurine of a black dragon. He thought Henry might appreciate it. If money hadn't been so very tight, Gold would have liked to have gotten another one for the boy as a gift. This one had another purpose.

Rumplestiltskin looked down at Maleficent and smiled. "Well, dearie?" he asked. "Shall we go in? I do believe the party has started without us."


	6. The Fear Inside

Mrs. Gold was the only one at the pawn shop by the time Will got there. He hadn't really noticed it at the diner, but he could see how she'd piled on the make-up, hiding the bruise Keith had left her with. He was supposed to be good at spotting things like that—sheriffs setting traps, wizards hiding in the mists, women hiding how hurt and broken they really were—but that one had slipped right by him.

Mrs. Gold was busy emptying out a large box of what looked like jars of dried or pickled herbs. She examined each jar, made marks in a ledger, and put them away. She didn't notice him till he put a Styrofoam container and a large iced tea down on the counter in front of her. "Potion stuff?" Will asked, looking at the bottles.

"Mostly," Mrs. Gold said, studying his offerings as if they might have poisoned snakes hiding inside. "What's this?"

"Granny sent it over. She said you're getting too thin and need to eat more pancakes."

Mrs. Gold looked at her box of herbs. "I don't have time. . . ."

"Then you can call Granny and tell her it's not my fault you aren't eating. I'm not sure she was joking about the hamburger." He gestured towards the jars. "This was Hook's emergency? Bottle inventory?"

"Magic herbs," Mrs. Gold said. "There's an old woman, Professor Longneaux. She has several degrees in botany. Or her Storybrooke self does. Back home, she was an herbalist." Mrs. Gold smiled at the irony. "That's why being a botanist was a curse for her. She didn't just enjoy knowing about the herbs, she enjoyed preparing them and using them to help people. Here, she spent twenty-eight years collecting samples, cultivating gardens and green houses, and letting them collect dust."

And she'd told Mrs. Gold all this on their first meeting. He got that. Mrs. Gold did that to people, getting them to pour out their life stories by the warm way she looked at them. Or get them to make up really good life stories to pour out instead. That would be the safe way to go. "And, now, the botanist is using them? Or just foisting them off on you?"

"This is helping me," she said quickly. "Some of them were magical plants, ones I didn't even know made it to this world with us. And not just from her garden. I think she has notes on every blade of grass in town."

That sounded better. Maybe the professor really was trying to help. Maybe. "And she preserved them and all that? Dried them or canned them or whatever?" _She didn't dump even more work on you?_

"Oh, yes. All the ones she brought over are taken care of. And look at all her notes. I need to start reading them—" Mrs. Gold pointed to a stack of untidy looking notebooks, with post-its and bits of paper sticking out of them. Uh-oh. Will had some idea what would happen to the food if he let Mrs. Gold bury herself in those. It was time for an intervention.

"They'll still be there after you eat," Will said. When Mrs. Gold gave him an exasperated look, he added, "Hey, this is self-preservation. You saw Granny's meat cleaver. You really want her coming after me?" He tried to do sad, puppy-dog eyes. That one didn't work too well with people who'd known him a long time—maybe a week or two—but he hoped it would be enough for Mrs. Gold.

It wasn't. But, it helped. It took a bit more persuasion, but, in the end, Will got her to open the container. Mrs. Gold grimaced slightly as the smell of warm food drifted up, but she pulled a stool over to the counter and sat down. Then, with a determined look on her face, she took the plastic knife and fork Granny had included and began taking slow, methodical bites, chewing thoroughly before each swallow. It was like watching a kid trying to avoid death-by-vegetables. Will decided not to comment.

Instead, he picked up one of the jars. There was a label on it in delicate cursive, _Dragonwort. _Near the bottom, on the left-hand side, it said, _From the kitchen of Artemisia Longneaux._

"Artemisia Longneaux? I wonder what she did to Regina to get a name like that."

"Who knows? And it's _Longneaux_." Mrs. Gold said the _Long_ with the o way back in her throat, the way Bostonians said _law _(Will may have never left Storybrooke, but Will's cursed self said he'd spent a lot of time up and down the eastern seaboard before coming to a small town to lay low). The _neaux _sounded like _new,_ if Inspector Clouseau were saying it or maybe someone from a Monty Python movie. _We are the knights who say neaux._ That had worked getting rid of King Arthur, com to think of it. Maybe he should try it next time the sheriff came after him. "The professor was very particular about it," Mrs. Gold said. "She corrected Hook every time he got it wrong."

"Really? I think I like her." Will waved an arm towards the box and bottles. "But, that doesn't mean this was worth skipping a meal. You're just sorting seasonings."

Mrs. Gold shrugged. "It needed to be done."

"It didn't need to be done _now._ Look, Mrs. Gold, I know how guys like Hook think. Your husband almost did him in, and you saved his life. He's not going to forgive either of those."

Mrs. Gold was a smart woman, but she was also tired and worn out. She didn't follow. "He's not going to forgive having his life saved?"

"Not by someone like you. If it had been someone else—Mr. Mary Margaret, maybe, whatever his name is—if the mayor's husband showed up at the last minute and saved Hook by beating Gold in a sword fight, that would be OK. Mr. Mary Mayor's a big, manly guy, and it doesn't make Hook look like a wimp if he beats someone in a fight when Hook couldn't.

"Or maybe if the queen had showed up and had an epic, magic battle with Gold, lots of fireballs all over the place. Nobody expects Hook to be throw fireballs around. Tiny the Giant cam get whipped by magic, and nobody thinks it makes him look weak, right?

"But, you're not a warrior and you're not a witch. You're not big or powerful, not the way Hook reckons it. No offense, but you're also a woman. For a guy like him, that makes it worse."

"Emma's a woman," Belle said. "He respects her."

Will rolled his eyes. "OK, pretending 'respect' is the what Hook feels for the sheriff, she's also a warrior. She doesn't call herself that, but she is. And she's proven it. She's taken on dragons and ogres and things that'd make Hook wet his pants. And she's the bloody _sheriff_. Around here, that's like captain of the guard. She's as a good as an officer in the king's army—_and_ she's royalty. The way I hear it, Hook used to be a snot-nosed officer from an upper-class family who got to hob-nob with the king himself." Will knew the type. Anastasia's family had been social-climbing merchants—a lot of money but none of the bloodlines. Ana's mum, _Lady _Tremaine (and don't you ever forget the 'lady' part if you wanted to keep your skin) got her title by marrying her second husband. She'd never forgiven Ella for being the genuine article—or, as Anastasia once put it, the competition—or she hadn't forgiven her till Ella married a prince and raised the whole family's connections. That was when Ella became the favorite child, the apple of stepmummy's eye. But, that didn't mean old families (like Hook's) didn't still treat Anastasia like a flea-ridden gutter-dog that snuck in while the guards were looking the other way. "And Emma's good looking and willing to go out with him. Cora had less going for her than that, and Hook put up with her for twenty-eight years." Licking her majesty's boots every step of the way, Will would wager.

He went on, "That's not you. You're a scholar. You beat the most powerful wizard alive because you were smart. And you saved Hook's neck because you don't let folks get killed if you can stop it. You didn't care if he fluttered his beady, little eyes at you. He could look like a toad and poison," _and he does, _"And you'd still save him."

Mrs. Gold picked at the pancakes. "Hook doesn't flutter his eyes."

"Sure he does. Guys do it all the time. We're just not supposed to call it that. He also likes to stand around and pose so women can see how good he thinks he looks in a leather jacket."

"Excuse me, but aren't you wearing a leather jacket?"

"Yeah, but the difference is I really _do_ look good in it. I don't need anyone telling me."

_Nobody except one person._

No, he'd told himself he wasn't going to think about that. His wife . . . wasn't here. And the woman in front of him had problems of her own. Even if he'd wanted to flirt with her—and she was up there with Meat-Cleaver Granny and this Professor Longneaux (old-herbalist-botanist? _Really?_) for women he didn't want to flirt with—that was the last thing Mrs. Gold needed.

He wanted to flirt with a woman whose eyes lit up when she saw him, even when she was angry with him and wanted to throw him into next week (or another world). OK, maybe they hadn't lit up_ then_. Maybe they never would again, no matter what he did to try and set things right, not after what he'd done. But, it was what he wanted.

Bloody hell, maybe he should just break into the library again and spend the night curled around another book. That had worked so well before.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gold actually laughed. It was a weak laugh. But, that was progress, right? Only, it vanished too quickly, as if it had never been there. "Hook's not the reason," she said, half-heartedly stabbing a pancake with her fork but not taking a bite of it. She hadn't eaten much. She hadn't even opened up the little packages of syrup on the side with all their calories (you could get _real_ syrup at Granny's. But, no one—even in Storybrooke—put real maple syrup in little packages for take-out. He should have gotten some at the store last night. Maybe she'd eat that). "I need to _finish._" Her voice was a low whisper and raw with pain. "I can't leave till—till things are set right. Till the fairies are out of the hat. Till someone else can deal with the potions and magic. Till. . . ." She shook her head, unable to finish that list. "I just need it _done_."

"Leave?" Will said, baffled. "Leave where? Back to the Enchanted Forest?"

"Leave Storybrooke," Belle said. "I need to leave Storybrooke."

Will knew what the Jabberwocky's victims looked like when she was finding their greatest fear minds and tearing their minds apart from the inside. He knew what a woman suffering that looked like when she was desperately trying to hold on and not betray the person she loved.

No, Mrs. Gold didn't look like that. She couldn't. She had no reason to. _None._ There shouldn't be that naked agony in her eyes.

Mrs. Gold hunched over, arms hugged close against her chest, as if she were in pain. "I threw him out," she whispered. "He had _nothing_, and I threw him out. He—he couldn't even _walk_. I didn't even listen to him. He tried to tell me . . . I don't know. I don't know what he was trying to do, or why, and I didn't even listen." She glanced at one of the cupboards (Will, remembering his own foray into one of those cupboards, immediately looked innocent). "I check his dagger every day. His—his name would vanish if he were dead. It would start to fade if—if—I have to go to him, I have to help him. I _have_ to. But, I can't. Not while things are like this."

"Uh. . . ." Will tried to think of something to say. _Don't. _That was the first thought. _You think you can do something the Dark One can't? Even if it is out there? _That was the second. _How can you even find him? _He couldn't say any of that.

"Regina?" he tried. "The evil queen? Doesn't she know about magic?"

"Not like this. Regina's always relied on power. The theory behind magic, why it works the way it does, why it costs the price it does, those are the things she never bothered with." Mrs. Gold gave a weak, broken smile. "She said herself, she's more likely to try and blast the hat apart as soon as she gets frustrated. She said that would be about five minutes after she started. Maybe ten. I _have _to keep working on this."

She checked the dagger. Every day. She was working herself to death so she could find her husband. Will looked at his memories of big cities, the real ones and the others, and wondered how long a woman who would let a creep like Keith go without even pressing charges would last someplace like New York.

"You won't be able to come back," he said. Didn't she have friends here? Family? People she couldn't leave behind? OK, she was wearing away to nothing right in front of their eyes without anyone doing anything about it, but didn't she have _someone?_

Granny, he thought, looking at the pancakes. And Ruby. And maybe even the sheriff, if she stopped looking at her pretty boy's fluttering eyelids long enough to notice what was going on around her.

Mrs. Gold smiled again. It was only half a smile, really, broken and hurting, but it was stronger than the last one. "I know I can't come back," she said. "But, it's all right. I left everything behind for him before. I can do it again."

Will thought about another meeting and a parting. He thought about all the pain and the angry words. ". . . . and, if he doesn't want you?"

Her smile faltered but it didn't go away. "It's all right," she said, softly. "This isn't for me. It's for him. I—I can't fix what I've done. But, I can do this much. That's what matters."

X

A few days before Will stood outside a store, waiting to rob it, Rumplestiltskin had stood at the town border. Maleficent had been bound in sleep all the years of the curse, but her dreaming mind had wandered the world outside Storybrooke. Strange things had happened to her, there. She had told Rumplestiltskin of a wizard whose mind she had touched in Hong Kong, whose murder she had been too slow to prevent. . . .

She could not have returned once her body was slain, not without his help. But, those remains still walked in the darkness beneath Storybrooke. She existed on both sides of the line. It had no power to keep her out—or to keep out the one who held her metal form in the palm of his hand.

Rumplestiltskin smiled as he felt the magic flood back into him. The pain in his leg faded like a distant memory. But, this time, he knew better than to let go of his walking stick.


	7. Paper Masks

Belle was going through Rumplestiltskin's notes on the hat once again, trying to decipher the old texts. Unfortunately, Rumplestiltskin had copied down most of what he'd found on it in whatever original language the text happened to be. There were several, small snippets of information he had found here and there. Had the sorcerer who made the hat used all these languages? Or were these bits and pieces gathered from other wizards and scholars over the ages? Or other Dark Ones?

Will, meanwhile, had volunteered to put away the bottles Professor Longneaux had brought, so long as Belle ate the food Granny had sent. Belle took a sip of her tea and pushed a bit of food around with her fork. Some of the writing seemed to be pictographic, some of it seemed to be phonetic, but it used the same symbols for both. Unless it didn't. Unless everything she'd translated so far was wrong and useless.

She shoved the food and the book away, frustrated. She wasn't even sure the text was all in the same language. There were times it didn't seem to be. Even the rules on the pictographs seemed to change.

Maybe the writing was nothing more than Rumplestiltskin's idea of a joke, bits and pieces cobbled together from a dozen other writings while the real spells were hidden somewhere else. Maybe she was wasting her time.

The bell rang, and she looked up to see Emma coming in. "Hey, Belle, how's it going?" the sheriff asked. "Having any luck? Killian said he thought you were having trouble."

Meaning Killian sent the sheriff over to make sure Belle stayed on task, Belle thought. Then she chided herself. Jones wanted this done as badly as she did. Her husband had forced Jones to trap the fairies, among other innocents. He'd almost trapped _Emma. _She was Henry's _mother, _and he'd been willing to do that to her.

Had Belle ever known him at all?

"Not really," Belle said. "At least, I have some new potion ingredients. I suppose Jones told you how Professor Longneaux brought them over?"

"What?" Emma said. "No, I hadn't heard. Uh . . . what kind of ingredients?"

Belle recognized that hesitation. It meant, _How gross are these ingredients? _And, _Am I going to have to arrest somebody if I know too much about it? _

Did Emma really think Belle would have something like that here? Belle thought of all the eyes that seemed to be always following her, judging. She thought of the whispers, the ones she wasn't supposed to overhear and the ones she was. Did Emma think Belle had been helping Rumple? That she had been in on his plan to kill Jones, only to turn on him at the last minute? Why? It didn't make any sense.

Belle had used Rumple's dagger against him, exiling him from everything he knew and loved. None of this made any sense.

"Plants," Belle said. "She's a botany professor. She has samples and records on everything growing around Storybrooke. You didn't know about her?"

"No, should I?"

When Jones had found her at Granny's, he'd talked about 'the rest of _us_' solving the town's problems. It had sounded to Belle as if the whole, royal family had been waiting by the door.

Will said he just liked to boss people around—to boss _her _around. Because she'd saved him. Because she'd seen him at his weakest, and he couldn't forgive that.

"It doesn't matter," Belle said. "It's just that she's been a great help. Was there something I could do for you?"

"No, not really. I just—look, I thought maybe you should know. Keith got arrested this morning. He may have committed a burglary. He was found passed out in the alley behind your shop. I know you like him, but it's possible he may have broken in here or in one of the other stores. I'm checking if anyone has any stock missing. It could be especially bad if he got anything from your place."

"I . . . no," Belle said. "Not that I've noticed. What—what did he say he'd been doing?"

"He hasn't," Emma said. "Not yet. He, uh, he was pretty drunk when I took him in." The sheriff looked uncomfortable. Of course, she thought Belle _liked_ Keith Notting, as unbelievable as that was."

Will stepped over. "Oh, yeah, that's the Sheriff of Snottingham for you. The man never could hold his liquor."

Emma's eyes widened. She either hadn't noticed Will or had just assumed he was a nameless customer wandering around. "What are you doing here?"

Will held up a container of stinging-nettles. "Community service. What's it look like? I was caught ripping up library books, remember?"

"He's helping me stock the materials Professor Longneaux brought over," Belle said.

"Seriously? And you trust him not to steal you blind while he's doing it?"

"Hey!" Will objected. "I wouldn't rob this place. What do you think I am?"

"A thief. Remember? You told me that yourself the first time I met you."

"See? Only an honest man would have admitted that, right? So, you know you can trust me."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. . . ."

"Oh, that hurts, Sheriff. That really hurts. Man's inhumanity to man, that's what this is."

"No, inhumanity is when I lock you in jail again. Did you have anything to do with Notting's break-in last night?"

"First, I work alone. Second, we'll get a postcard from Ice Queen Ingrid about how fun it is making her new home in Hell freeze over before I would ever work with Snotty—sorry, Keith Notting. You've got your bloody super power. Tell me if I'm telling the truth or not."

Belle could see Will had scored a point. She could also see Emma didn't want to concede it, so the sheriff changed the subject instead. "Why do you keep calling him that? Snotty, Snottingham? Did you know him back in the Enchanted Forest?"

It was Will's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course, I knew him. I told you I was with the Merry Men, didn't I? I know the secret handshake and everything. Not that it's that secret. It's just that they cut your hand when you join. Great way to say hello to a bloke. Keith was the bloody Sheriff of Nottingham. You two ought to sit down and discuss locking up people who haven't done anything. Bet you'd be like soul mates or something."

"The sheriff of Nottingham?" Emma said. "Wait—was he one of the people who are like the stories? Or one of the ones who aren't? I mean, was he like Hansel and Gretel almost getting eaten by a witch or was he more like Red Riding Hood being the Big Bad Wolf?"

"Huh? I thought that was Doctor Who. Or Rose Taylor."

"He was like the stories," Belle said. "Or he was when I met him back there."

"Huh? I thought you liked him?"

All the exhaustion and numbness inside of Belle started to boil over. _No, I can't lose my temper, _she told herself. Emma would just think she'd gotten hysterical. Belle remembered when she'd lost her memory and been put back in the hospital. She'd seen magic and hadn't understood what it was. People thought it was easier to drug her into sleep rather than find a way to answer her questions.

People, she thought. Not Rumple. Rumple had tried to tell her, had tried to explain it to her. She'd been afraid at first. But, in the end, she'd known she trusted him—trusted him more than the strangers who said they were her friends who stood by while a nurse put a needle in her arm when she accused them of lying to her.

Rumple had told her the truth. She thought he would always tell her the truth, the one person in this town she could trust not to lie to her.

That's why it had cut so deep when he had. Ruby, Emma, even her father, they'd all lied to her. They said it was for her own good, but their real reason was that it was so much easier than telling her the truth. He'd never done that to her.

Until he had.

"I don't like him," Belle grated. "Jones likes him. You'll have to ask him why."

"Huh? But—"

"Do you want to know why I'm sure nothing was stolen from this shop last night, Emma? Because—" No, she couldn't tell Emma what Keith had done. Hadn't done. Had almost—No, she couldn't say it. Wouldn't think about it. But, there was something she could say that maybe Emma would understand. "I—I saw him." There. That was safe to say. Wasn't it? "Outside the store. I was tired and I didn't want to—to—I didn't want to deal with him. And there was work to do here. I stayed. I fell asleep in the backroom. I would have noticed Keith trying to break in."

Emma looked at her uncertainly, but nothing Belle had said was a lie. Her sixth sense or whatever it was would be telling her Belle had spoken the truth. She just didn't want to believe it.

"Killian says he's a good guy," Emma said unsurely. "Maybe he's changed? A lot of people have since the curse."

Will gave a snorting laugh through his nose. "Oh, paper-masks, is that what you're thinking?"

Emma was at sea again. "Paper-masks?"

"It's a story from our world," Belle said. "There was a man, a mighty warrior, who fell in love with a beautiful maiden. But, he was a man who had nurtured hate and anger all his life, and the marks of it were written all over his face."

"Like Conan the Barbarian," Will said, trying to be helpful. "Or maybe the Terminator. Arnold Schwarzenegger on a really bad day."

"So, he went to a mask-maker, the best one in all our world. He made him a mask that looked like a real face. Every line in it looked kind and gentle. But, the mask maker warned him. It was made out of paper so thin and delicate that if he ever let anger or rage show on his face, it would break the mask and the truth would be known.

"The warrior wore the mask and won the maiden's heart. For forty years, he was patient and kind. Then, his wife died. He gave way to terrible grief and pain at his loss. The mask crumbled away. He was terrified. He thought his own children and family wouldn't recognize him. But, when he looked in the mirror, he saw that, after forty years, his face had become the mask."

"Yeah," Will said. "There's a _Twilight Zone_ episode in this world that tells almost the same story. Except, those were bad masks. Unless it was _Outer Limits_. No, the _Outer Limits_ was an alien. Anyhow, Snotty never watched those. And he's still a drunk and a jerk."

Emma was still giving Will suspicious looks when she left to check on the other stores, but Belle supposed she was trying to be helpful. All the same, she heaved a sigh of relief when the sheriff left.

"She's trying," Will said. "And she can tell when people are telling the truth. If you told her what Snotty did—"

"No," Belle said. "Emma's power doesn't always work. Especially when she doesn't want to believe it." Magic and belief, they went hand in hand with each other. Sometimes, Belle wondered if the World Without Magic was the way it was because it had no magic—or if it was this way because people _believed _it had no magic. And that made it true.

"Why wouldn't she want to believe it?"

"You saw her. She can't believe Jones was that wrong about one of his friends."

Will gave another snort. "Oh, I don't think he was _wrong._ I think he knows exactly what his friend is like."

Belle nodded soberly. "Yes. And I know what it's like when you need to believe the person you love isn't—isn't like that."

"Oh," Will said. He looked away. "Yeah. I get that." He looked over at the counter and Belle's stacks of books and notes. "What is that you're working on, anyway?"

"The spell for the magic hat," Belle said. "I'm trying to free the fairies. But, I can't understand more than one world in ten—and I'm not sure I have those right. I'm making some progress," she added. "When I started, it was barely one word in twenty. But, no one in Storybrooke even knows these languages. I only have Rumple's notes, and it's so hard. . . ."

Will walked over to the counter while she was talking. "You ever see _Alien vs Predator_?" he asked.

"Did I ever see what?"

"_Alien vs Predator. _ It's a great movie. Uh, except just about everybody dies. But, they go down fighting Aliens _and _Predators. It's great."

"Will. . . ."

"But, see, there are these hieroglyphics or something that have all this weird writing. It's supposed to be a mix of Egyptian and Mayan and Chinese and stuff. Some of these are like that. And _Stargate_. _Stargate_ had stuff that was supposed to be like Egyptian writing. Sort of. It took their professor guy maybe a quarter of the movie to figure it out."

"You—you think this looks like writing from this world?"

"Really old stuff, yeah."

Belle stared at her books. Could it really be this simple? "How?" she breathed. "How could someone from this world know ancient language from our world?"

Will shrugged. "How do people from this world know stories about people in our world? You really think dreaming written notes is harder than getting the right names for seven dwarves you've never met?"

"But—but—it's incredible—_how—_"

"OK, fine, maybe _we_ dreamed up _their _language. That's not the point. The point is maybe somebody in this world can figure this out even if we can't. Just find a professor or something."

"A professor," Belle whispered. It couldn't be this easy. Could it? "But . . . we can't leave Storybrooke. How can we even find one?"

"Internet still works for some things, doesn't it? Try that," Will said. Since Storybrooke had been cut off, some things would cross the town line and some wouldn't. Even words. Even information.

"I tried," Belle said. "I tried to find out what happened to Rumple. Regina's tried to find out about Robin. He said he would call her, if he could. She said she would try to send him more money. It doesn't work."

"But, food gets in," Will said. "Stuff gets delivered the way it's supposed to, and money pops out of accounts to pay for it. Something normal could get through."

"Normal," Belle said. "We're looking for the translation of a spell."

"The sheriff can still get calls from other sheriffs and lawyers and stuff," Will said. "A couple came through while I was locked up. And I know she was checking her email. What about that professor, Longneaux? If the curse told her she knew other professors, maybe she does. Or they think she does. Maybe she can get a message to one of them. It's worth a try, ain't it?"

X

Some days before, Rumplestiltskin had walked down a dark street, reveling in the lack of pain in his leg. It was late, but he wasn't a man for taking risks. Besides, Storybrooke had a larger share of creatures that walked the night than most small towns. Small bits of magic diverted the eyes of anyone who might otherwise see him pass.

Maleficent, meanwhile, growled with impatience. "You promised me my body, Rumplestiltskin," she reminded him.

"And you will have it," he said. "Very soon. But, things must be done in order." He looked at the dilapidated building they were approaching. "There are some things that will make life back in Storybrooke easier for both of us. Once you're alive again, that is. How many times have you been killed in this world? Three? You really must be more careful, dearie."

Maleficent growled again. "And what is it that will keep me from dying a fourth time?"

"A bit of paper," the Dark One said. "Be very careful not to break it."


	8. The Search for Flowers

**Note: **Meant to work on this chapter a bit more. But, after tonight's episode, I had to put it up as is for reasons I expect will be clear once you've read it.

X

As Belle gathered her things, she noticed a leather bound book lying in the box of jars. She picked it up, wondering if it had slipped in by accident. The cover had been tooled and embossed, showing a collection of flowers and plants. A sheaf of barley lay along asphodel, white wood asters, and pomegranates. Dozens of post-its stuck out along the edge. She opened it and found sketches and notes on various plants. She noticed some of the things written on the post-its. _Myth of Narcissus, Legend of the Snapdragon, Folklore—Willow Tree. _It seemed to be a collection of tales and traditions of different plants, all of them written out in the same handwriting that was on the jars the professor had labeled. She would want it back, Belle thought, when she noticed one note that didn't fit, _Thumbling._

Curious, Belle turned to that page. A story had been written down. Notes along the margin indicated another book it had been copied from. Without meaning to, Belle found herself reading it.

_Thumbling_

_Once upon a time, there was an old woman who longed for a child. A fairy heard her wish. Dressed in yellow sunlight, she flew down from the sky at dusk, riding one of the last rays of the fading light. No bigger than the old woman's outstretched hand, the fairy held in her arms an even smaller cradle made from walnut shell. Curled up asleep inside beneath a blanket of rose petals was a tiny baby, no bigger than her thumb._

"_You must give her no name," the fairy warned. "She must find her own—or not-in time. But, if you will promise to leave her nameless, then she shall be your daughter and you shall be her mother. _

"_And, know this as well. You must feed her only barleycorn and water. For the day she tastes any flowering thing or the fruit thereof, you shall surely lose her."_

_The old woman promised and took the tiny infant. Though so very small, she was perfectly formed. She was also wingless. Whatever she is, the old woman thought, she cannot be a fairy. She called the babe her little treasure but, true to her promise, never gave her a name. Other folk, however, called her Thimble or Thumbling because she was so very small._

_But, guard her as she might, the day came when trouble found them. It was when Thumbling was on the brink of womanhood. On that day, the old woman brought in great armfuls of flowers to make the house bright and merry. Though Thumbling had been warned time and again not to touch them, as she stood beneath the blossoms, admiring them, a drop of nectar mixed with dew fell from one of the petals straight onto Thumbling's hand. Without thinking, she lifted the droplet to her lips. As she tasted the nectar, golden sparks of magic flew from Thumbling's fingers. _

_Now, magic, once woken, cannot simply be set to sleep again. The old woman knew that Thumbling must go out into the world to seek her fate and to learn the name that truly belonged to her. The tale of her adventures is long and cannot all be given here. There is the tale of the cricket she met who spoke like a man. There is a tale of how she met a dwarf who lived deep in the earth, like a mole, who fell in love with her and would have married her had not a fairy, blue as a robin's egg, come down at the last moment and carried her away._

_But, at the end of her many adventures, Thumbling was taken to the queen of the fairies, who said to her, "Poor child! You are one of us. Long have we searched for you. See? Here are your wings. They were stolen from you, but we found them and kept them safe. Take them and take also your place among us. We have kept your name safe all this time in hopes of one day returning it to you. You are the youngest and newest of all the fairies who dwell in the sky. . . ."_

The story broke off abruptly. There were more notes at the bottom, references to different editions and possible source materials, but the story of Thumbling ended there.

X

Maleficent had chafed with impatience, but Rumplestiltskin was determined to take care of his business first. She could hardly blame him—she would do the same in his position. She blamed him anyway. It had been too long. Twenty-eight years as nothing more than a wandering spirit, only her animal anger left behind to keep her dragon form alive. She wanted to be back in her own flesh and bones.

Of course, she had lost even her ghost life when That Woman—the one who reminded her so much of the yellow fairy—had killed the old wizard who had given her soul a haven for so many years, cutting the thread that bound Maleficent to old man even as she was gathering her power to strike That Woman dead. Maleficent had been plunged back into the sleeping void till the stirring of power had woken her—the Savior's promise to defend her new land. In this land, however, Maleficent had woken with nothing more than the mind and form of a beast.

Not long after, she had scented something in the dark tunnels. She had not remembered what it was, but something in it stirred her anger. She knew it now. It mixed the scent of the warrior who had dared attack her in her own castle and the smell of Rumplestiltskin.

"That would be Henry," Rumplestiltskin told her as they made the long trek back to Storybrooke. "My grandson."

"Grandson?"

"His father is dead," Rumplestiltskin said it flatly, his cold voice clearly warning her not to ask any of the questions burning through her. Changing the subject, he said, "The boy's mother is the daughter of Prince Charming and Snow White."

"His mother? She's the one who killed me?"

"Hmm? Oh, you mean the second time. Yes, I suppose she did. Don't hold it against her. It's not as if it took."

Maleficent had followed the boy's scent, hunting the intruder in her realm, only to have him slip away into the light. "I suppose it's just as well I didn't harm the boy, then."

"Indeed. And it would be just as well if you _continued _not to harm him, if you take my meaning."

His meaning, Maleficent thought, was that Rumplestiltskin made a far worse enemy than any demon—or any army of demons. "I see."

"I'm sure you do. But, what about the third time you died? How did a pirate with one hand get the better of you?"

"He was protected from magic," Maleficent snapped, feeling needled. "My other body's nearly dead, a gathering of ashes. I couldn't change into a dragon or anything else terribly useful, and he was the better fighter."

"Protected? Oh, that would have been a gauntlet he had, protecting him from magic. It was a gift from the demon, Pan, the child-stealer."

"Child-stealer." Old memories and older pains gnawed at her. "There are some people who call you that."

"I never took a child who wasn't freely bartered away to me—and, for what it's worth, I tried to keep them from harm. Pan took them because having a little army of sycophants to play with amused him."

"An army? Of children?"

"Oh, yes," there was something dark in Rumplestiltskin's voice, a deadlier warning than when he'd mentioned the father of his grandson who was dead. "It wasn't about winning battles with him. It was about keeping himself from being bored. Sometimes they bled. Sometimes they died. Sometimes someone else did. It all depended on what amused him."

"Should I be worried about him?"

"Not anymore. He's dead—a little more thoroughly than you were. He never had the thing you want."

"But, you do."

"Not because I took it. Let's just say that you and I have some common enemies, ones I've kept an eye on. And, unlike some people here, I've made a habit of reading storybooks."

"Is that why we're looking for this friend of yours?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call him a friend, not yet. We haven't even been formally introduced, but I believe he'll accept the deal we have to offer. After all, we have exactly what he needs."

"And the rest?"

"There's a storybook in the convent library that has your true story—allowing for a few modifications from the Mother Superior. I've told you, I know what you want and I know how to get past the protections the Blue Fairy put around it. But, first, we need to find our thief. He comes very highly recommended."

X

_The Fairy Fortunata_

_The story is told how, once, a fairy, Fortunata, was given guardianship over a young and handsome prince, who she guided through many adventures, giving him all that he required and more. In the end, though it was against all the laws of her kind, she gave him her heart as well, and he gave her his in return. The two plighted their troth in secret but, on the day the two were joined as husband and wife, the fairy's wings shriveled and turned to dust. Yet, Fortunata regarded it not, so great was her love for her prince._

_But, the prince's family was not happy with their new daughter-in-law when the prince brought her home in joy to meet them. For, they thought, surely the Queen of the Fairies would turn her face against them if they welcomed this fallen member of her kind. So, they shut the gates against her and would not let her pass their threshold._

_The prince sorrowed, and Fortunata wept that she should be the cause of such grief to the one she loved. But, the prince told her to be of good cheer for, though his family had cast him off, their love would sustain them. They dwelt in a cottage in the woods, far from the eyes of friends or foes. There, they were happy for a time._

_But, sorrow must come to all, be it soon or late. It happened one day, as the prince was hunting in the forest, that he met his father's uncle as the old man rode among the trees. His great-uncle chided the prince for the grief he caused their clan. But, the prince answered him boldly, telling of his great love for the fairy Fortunata. In the end, the old man seemed much moved by the tale. "Come with me to my castle," he told the prince. "This day is a great feast appointed and your father and mother shall be among my guests. Let me intercede with them that perhaps their hearts may be softened towards you and your love."_

_With great joy, the prince rode with his uncle. But, his uncle spoke falsely and the prince was riding into a trap. For the anger of the Queen of the Fairies had not lessened in all this time, and it was she who had sent the old man riding through the forest where she knew he would chance to meet his nephew. _

_When the king and queen came to the castle, they brought with them a young princess, daughter of a neighboring king. She was as beautiful as the dawn, so it was said. The young prince, when he rode through the castle gates and dismounted, was given a glass of wine. It had been brewed by the Queen of the Fairies herself. The moment it touched his lips, he forgot Fortunata, still waiting for him in the woods. For a moment, he struggled, thinking he had lost something of great importance. Then, his eyes fell on the young princess, and it seemed to him he had found it. Surely, he thought, this is the woman I love._

_Long and long did Fortunata await her prince's return. Days turned into weeks and weeks to months, but he did not return to her. She searched the woods, thinking some ill had befallen him, and called down the ravens, bidding them speak of all the secrets they knew. At last, an ancient rook returned to her. In a croaking voice, he said, "As I flew over the village that lies at the forest's edge, I saw the people dancing and feasting. As I flew closer to learn the cause of all their joy, I heard them bid a traveler join them. 'Rejoice!' the people said. 'For, though our prince long lay under an enchantment by an evil fairy, he has, at long last, been freed! Today, our prince has taken himself a new bride!'"_

_In grief, Fortunata returned to the small cottage where she and the prince had lived so happily. There, a new sorrow awaited her. For, in the time since her prince had left her, she had born him an infant daughter, perfect in every way, down to the lovely wings on her back. But, when Fortunata looked in the cradle where she had left the sleeping child, the she was gone. _

_Then, Fortunata's grief turned to rage. For, though only a fairy could have borne her child away, protected as she was by Fortunata's spells, only her husband could have given one her lost sisters entrance. _

_As the fury burned within her, her body twisted and changed. "Fortunata no longer, but Maleficent," she said, as the black flames of her anger consumed her and she rose from them, a dragon. . . ._


	9. Needful Things

Belle texted Professor Longneaux. The professor might be an old woman, but she'd told Belle she preferred messages she could read to ones that were spoken. "I do a great deal of work on my computer when I'm not working outside with plants, recording the data and so on," she'd said. "It's easier to just keep typing."

Professor Longneaux thought she knew someone who could help with the translations, a man from Oxford. She promised to forward the data Belle sent her to him, along with a story they concocted to explain it. The professor would say the documents had been found in the attic of an old house in Storybrooke. They would blame an old scholar who had lived there in the 19th century, one with a reputation for having an odd sense of humor. That gave them room to say they didn't know if the documents were something real or the last practical joke of a dotty New Englander. Hopefully, that would give them room to explain just about anything about a magic hat and demon wizards.

Belle hesitated but as they finished up their plan. At the very end, she texted one more message.

_I found a notebook of yours with the herbs._

Belle wasn't sure why but she held her breath, waiting for the reply.

_Oh, did you? I'm always leaving those lying about. Which one is it?_

Not a guilty response, Belle thought, not sure why she thought it should be. _It's tooled leather with a lot of plants and fruit on the front. It has notes on plants and stories about plants. _She paused before adding, _One of them is about Thumbelina._

_I know the one, _Professor Longneaux sent back. _If you could just put it aside, I'll come back for it later. I'm trying to get ahold of Princess Aurora. Did you know she might have some thorns from the bushes that grew around her castle? I'd love to examine some of those._

_She might, _Belle texted. _Tell me if she has some. I think I could find a use for them. Just be sure to call ahead before you come over for the notebook or any other business. I may be in and out today. _She picked up the notebook again, looking over the story.

"Something wrong?"

Will's voice broke through whatever trance Belle had been in. She looked up. "Nothing," Belle said. "Except . . . the professor has notes on myths and legends connected to plants. There's a version of Thumbelina in here but it's not like any I know."

"Oh, one of those," Will said. "You wondering if it's like that book the sheriff's kid lugs around? A real story?"

"Maybe. Instead of a mole, it says a Dwarf wanted to marry her."

"Be too tall, wouldn't he? Thumbelina was, what, three inches? Can't see Tom Clark leading her down the aisle."

"Thumbelina was a fairy, if this story is telling the truth. She should have been able to make herself big." She wasn't sure how much of Dreamy—no, Grumpy—no _Leroy's_ story she should share with someone else. Better not to give him names and details, she decided. "I—I knew a Dwarf who fell in love with a fairy."

Will sat up and took notice. "Really? A Dwarf? I thought those guys didn't do that. Hatch out of rocks, don't they?"

"They do. But, he still fell in love. And I knew the fairy." She supposed she had to give him this much. "She's Sister Astrid in this world."

"Sister? Oh, bloody hell. She's in the hat?"

Belle shook her head. "I don't think so." She'd been trying to remember everything that had happened that terrible day, the last day before she learned the truth about Rumplestiltskin. Or what she thought was the truth. She'd spent it helping the fairies, trying to find a way to defeat Ingrid's curse.

Until Rumple trapped them all. Or trapped all the ones who were there working on a counterspell.

"Sister Astrid wasn't at Granny's. She's. . . ." Belle tried to think of a polite way to say it. "She can be accident prone. Especially when she's nervous. I think the Mother Superior—the Blue Fairy—must have sent her away or left her at the convent."

"You'd think she would have shown up by now if she was still around. Or maybe somebody got her during the Shattered Sight Spell?"

_Leroy_, Belle thought. He'd been in love with Astrid and she'd broken his heart. If he'd run into her while under that spell, when all he could remember when he saw her was his pain and his hurt—or if Astrid had only been able to remember her own pain at how Leroy had turned on her. . . . Belle closed her eyes, trying not to see Rumple's face again as she ordered him over the town line.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

No, she'd seen Leroy since then. She'd heard his muddled sympathy as he told her she was better off without Rumplestiltskin. Belle knew how you acted when you'd destroyed the thing you loved most. Leroy hadn't done that.

"The convent," she told Will. "We have to look at the convent." Because, if Astrid was there, if they could find her—then they could get all the fairies out of the hat.

X

Will asked if he could drive as they got into Cadillac. Mrs. Gold gave him a wan smile. "I'm the only one my husband let's drive this car." Then her face changed. He could almost see the words she'd said registering, _My husband. _Her smile curled up, wounded, and vanished inside.

He didn't argue, but it wasn't just car lust that made him ask (not that he—and probably every man in Storybrooke—wasn't dying for a chance to get behind the wheel of this beauty). Mrs. Gold looked like she might pass out from exhaustion at any moment. That wasn't something he really wanted in a driver.

He tried to keep her talking as they headed out, keeping one eye on Mrs. Gold and another on the road. But, she had the grim, adrenalized look of a person with a plan. Or the beginnings of a plan.

"Blood," she told him. "There's a globe in Rumple's shop. With a drop of blood, you can trace where to find someone connected to you by blood. There are other spells that could summon someone with a drop of their blood. All the fairies in this world are family. Sort of. If Astrid's still here, if we can find her, there may be a way to get the other fairies. I think—maybe—the bits and pieces I was able to translate—I still need to know more—but I think it could work."

"So, we're going to search the convent for an enchanted fairy so we can use her to rescue a bunch of other enchanted fairies so they can unenchant the first fairy? Have I got that?"

"Uh . . . not exactly. People have been up to the convent before. _I've_ been up there, when I was looking for books to help free the others. One of us would have found her if she was someplace obvious—"

"Bloody hell!" Will exclaimed as Mrs. Gold almost didn't make a turn. "Watch the road!" When his heart calmed down a little, he said, "They've got a mausoleum or something there haven't they? You don't suppose they stuck her in a crypt? It would be a good place to hide someone, like Snow White in a glass coffin. Except harder to see through."

Mrs. Gold shuddered. "I hope not. The last thing I want to do is break into a bunch of graves."

"Aw, there won't be any fairies in them. They don't die much, do they?"

"Not much isn't the same as never. There may be graves brought over from our world. Or there might be other people's bodies in them. Or things besides bodies."

"Yeah, guess that sounds like Evil Queen humor. Trust me. I've known some. Afraid we'll let out a bunch of ghouls? I fought a zombie army once. Don't worry about it."

She looked at him skeptically. "Are you going to tell me it's not that bad?"

"Nah, are you nuts? You stick a knife in them. They get up again. It stinks. The good thing is, if that's what you're fighting, you won't have time to worry. You'll be too busy staying alive. Or being dead." He waited. "That was a joke. You're supposed to laugh."

"Really?" Her voice was tight and strained. "Then it didn't work, did it?" Yeah, people who were at the end of their rope had no sense of humor. He should have remembered that. Mrs. Gold was holding it together but (he looked guiltily at the bruise on her cheek) it was a near thing. "I have something else that might help us find Astrid," Mrs. Gold said. "There's just one problem. We need something that was hers—_just_ hers and no one else's."

"Why's that a problem?"

"Because the nuns didn't have private property. Everything they own belongs to the order. Or it's supposed to."

Oh, great. "Just checking. So, the plan is we break into a convent to steal something that belonged to a nun except nuns don't have anything that belongs to them. Once we manage that, _then_ we find the enchanted nun to find the other enchanted nuns so they can unenchant the first nun. Have I got that or is there more?"

"We're not breaking in. I know where the keys are."

"Trust me, even if you've got the keys, people still call it breaking in when they find you going through their stuff and call the cops. I say we go with my plan and smash open some crypts."

X

A day or two before, Rumplestiltskin had taken Maleficent, still in the body of an iron dragon, to a certain apartment building. He had no trouble finding the room he wanted. New York may have sometimes confused him, but he knew every brick and stone in Storybrooke—and he knew where every man, woman, child, and quite a few of the sewer rats lived. The man he wanted was here.

He cast one spell before opening the door. No reason for any phone calls—or screams—to go beyond this door. Some conversations were best kept private. Rumplestiltskin went inside and turned on the light. Yes, there the fellow was, asleep on the couch, arms curled around a children's book.

"Dead drunk," Maleficent said. "Are you sure this is what you need?"

"Quite sure," Rumplestiltskin said. "Even Cora found this one useful." He snapped his fingers over the man, clearing the alcohol from his system and waking him at the same time.

Will Scarlet rubbed his eyes then looked up at the man standing over him. Any tiredness vanished at once. He started to swear.

"Now, now, dearie," Rumplestiltskin said. "Is that any way to treat the man who is about to make all your dreams come true? Oh, yes. I know exactly what it is you want and—in return for one, very small thing—I'm prepared to give it to you." He smiled coldly. "For your sake, I suggest you agree."


	10. Nothing Lost

_Not long before Belle and Will's meeting at the shop._

There was one reason—and only one—for Maleficent to come back to this town.

Oh, there was Rumplestiltskin's promise to revive her. She had not sent out her dreaming mind to find a new host since the last one died (and, had she known that pompous captain who came to confront her in her crypt was hand in glove with the old man's murderer, she might have tried a little harder to do the job Regina gave her and kill him). With her mind awakened and her body gone, she wasn't sure she could have found a host. Fear of failure had been part of it.

But, she'd rather liked the old man. She'd gotten used to the abominable tea he insisted on drinking and the stern, paternal glares he gave his patients. She'd _tried _to get used to his odd taste for poems and three thousand year old classics, but that was an uphill battle. At least her link had been strong enough that he'd understood when she told him she _had _to see _Gone with the Wind _again. She wasn't sure she was ready to move on to someone new, not just yet.

But, the Dark One had promised her child was here. Her _daughter _was here.

After their meeting with Will Scarlet, they went to the library, waiting till it was locked up by his little _wife_ (not at all surprising, she thought, though she'd still been surprised. True, she'd seen how Rumplestiltskin had looked at his little serving maid—and she'd seen his fury at them for daring to harm her. She'd felt that way herself once and could have warned him how it would end. But, who would think the _Dark One_ needed to be warned about what the future would bring?). At least, the little woman was finally done with her collection of books and ready to trot off to other job. Maleficent wondered when the scrawny thing slept. Or had Rumple given her some bit of magic that made it unnecessary? She'd seen his human self doze as they made this return trip, but she'd never heard of anyone catching the imp in so much as a catnap.

Well, whether he did or not, he knew how to open a lock. They quietly stepped out of the shadows and into the dark building.

It wasn't like the library in New York. People were known to hold _weddings _in that building (Maleficent, hearing the echoes of some of the ceremonies, hadn't been sure if she should be toasting the bride and groom or—more true to form—cursing their yet-to-be-born offspring). But, she had recognized an affinity between the places when she curled up there to lick her ethereal wounds. She'd tried to get Rumplestiltskin to tell her how he'd known to find her there, but he only smiled in that very smug way of his and didn't answer.

They went down into the caverns that lay deep beneath the town. To the small form Dark One held in his hand, it looked enormous. Her dragon-self had found it comfortably snug. He took her down to the place where Hook had killed her. The Dark One moved his hand as though he were gathering something out of the air, and her ashes began to race across the floor, forming a small pile.

It was rather disturbing, she thought, looking down at her own corpse, even in this condition.

Then he set her down on the small, gray pile. She was perched on top of her own, cold remains. No, nothing at all eerie about this.

"Now, what?" Maleficent asked.

"You must make them burn."

"What? They've _been _burned. I can't—" she wouldn't say she didn't have the power. Even now, three times dead and trapped in a role players D&D figurine, she hadn't been brought that low.

"You can," he said. "Find your anger. Your fire is there."

Magic and emotion, two twins. Maleficent thought of Stefan abandoning her for that arranged marriage with his little Briar Rose. She thought of her anger at the Yellow Fairy, who had helped Stefan's family lure him away and then stolen their child.

But, Stefan and Briar Rose were dead, and not by her hand. The Yellow Fairy had overstepped her bounds one time too many and brought Rumplestiltskin's wrath down on her head. The anger she felt burned cold.

"You know," Rumplestiltskin said. "I found out the details of what happened to your daughter. There was a poor widow who longed for a child, and a fairy—one dressed in yellow—brought her a tiny baby in cradle made out of a walnut seed."

"That's not possible," Maleficent said. "My baby was born human sized. She couldn't fit in something that small."

"But, she was half-fairy, wasn't she? Even that young, she could take on her fairy form. But, the baby the widow was given didn't have wings. Curious, don't you think? I only know of one way a fairy—even a half-fairy—could be that small and not have her wings showing. Unless you know of another? If what I heard is true. . . ." he let his voice trail off.

"They cut off her wings," Maleficent whispered.

"Indeed. And they gave the old woman strict rules on how to raise her. She was never to give the girl a name, that was the first rule."

"Because names have power." Rumplestiltskin was famous for using names in his magic. But, he was hardly the only one who understood their use.

"So they do. A name is the word we choose to give our true self. And that was just what no one ever wanted your child to find. The second rule was that the old woman could only feed her barleycorn and was never, ever to give her anything from a flower."

Maleficent turned her small head, looking at him. Flowers had a special power on fairies. How could they begrudge her that? Even now, fallen as she was, Maleficent could read the history of summer days in their scent or the taste of fruit or honey.

"But, one day, quite by accident, the girl drank a drop of nectar and her magic awoke. She went out into the world to seek her true name.

"I suppose the fairies knew of it, but they did nothing to help her on her quest. Or perhaps they hoped for the best, that the child would never succeed, that she'd give up or die. Tell me, Maleficent, what do you think happens to someone that small setting off alone into the great, wide world with no magic to protect her? Or none that she knew how to use?"

"Stop it," she whispered. "_Stop it._"

"Well, perhaps some things are better shared between mother and daughter. She did survive, after all, and managed—rather improbably—to have an audience with the Blue Fairy herself, who acted very happy to see her and produced a pair of wings that immediately clung to the little fairy's back. Nothing at all suspicious about that, now, is there? Oh, and they gave her a name, Nova. It meant 'new' in our world. It means the same thing here but it's also a word for a kind of star, one that has exploded and filled the world with light. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"I'm sure the Blue Fairy would say it's better than collapsing into darkness."

"Ah, your time in the library wasn't wasted, I see. You've been reading the astronomy section?"

"Among others. What—what is she like, as a fairy?"

"Awkward. Uncertain. Her spells have a way of going wrong. Perhaps because of all the years she went without training. Perhaps because she should be learning human magic to balance her fairy skills. But, she dreams of being a fairy godmother."

"Fairy godmothers are horribly overrated," Maleficent said bitterly. "I should know. They stole my child because I dared fall in love with her father, while that yellow icicle. . . ." But, Maleficent didn't have words foul enough to say what she thought of the yellow fairy.

"She fell in love," Rumplestiltskin said. "Your daughter, not the Yellow Fairy. Although, she fell in love, too, if that's what you want to call the little thrill she must have felt every time she looked in a mirror."

"My daughter . . . fell in love? Did she—did she leave the fairies?"

"Oh, no. The Blue Fairy didn't want a repeat of all that foolishness. Nova had fallen in love with a Dwarf, of all things. And, unlikely as it sounds, he'd fallen in love with her. Blue went to him and convinced him Nova didn't know what she was doing, giving up her wings, her magic for him. He couldn't do that to her, he couldn't destroy all her dreams.

"So, he convinced her he'd never loved her, that it had been a mistake." An old pain glimmered in the Dark One's eyes, as though he were remembering something. "She didn't believe him, but he sent her away.

"They stole your daughter and, instead of raising her as one of them, the tore of her wings and sent her to be raised in a dark hovel without even her name, living on barley bread and water. When that failed, they lied to her again. They blame her for her mistakes even though they're the ones who won't teach her what she needs to know. When she had a chance for a life of her own, they stole it from her. Think of that, and tell me you don't feel angry."

Maleficent remembered coming home and finding her daughter stolen. She remembered calling on her sister fairies, begging them to ignore her past, promising them anything if they would only help her find the child. She's been met with nothing but silence. When she finally was able to force a meeting with Reul Ghorm, the Blue Fairy had sniffed and told her the fairies only interfered in the lives of the pure and innocent—which Maleficent clearly was not.

They had torn off her wings.

Maleficent's cold iron turned to fire.

X

Belle fought the sense of being trapped, of the walls closing in and crushing her as she tried to look around the small cell. It wasn't sensible, she told herself. The cell—_room_, she corrected. The nuns might call them cells but it was just a _room—_had cream colored walls made of plaster, not stone. The one window was small and narrow, but there were no bars on it. The door didn't even lock. It wasn't a _cell._

There was a narrow bed, barely more than a cot, with only a thin mattress. But, it was neatly made and still looked more comfortable than the beds (if you wanted to call them that) Belle had known as Regina's prisoner. A small dresser stood against the wall, a mirror hung above it, turned against the wall. Mirrors were to be looked in only when necessary, according to the order's rules. A symbol of humility, if Belle remembered correctly. And common sense in a world where evil queens spied through mirrors.

_It isn't a cell. The door behind me is open. I can walk out any time I want._

It was too small, smaller than the holes Regina had kept her in.

The same size as the cage Zelena had kept—had _kenneled _Rumplestiltskin in.

"What are we looking for?" Will asked.

_Breathe, _Belle told herself. _Just breathe._

"Anything personal," Belle said. "Something that was Astrid's, not the order's."

"Clothes?" Will said in a I'm-trying-not-to-say-you're-missing-the-obvious voice. He pointed to the niche where a couple plain dresses and the cloak-jacket all the nuns wore as part of their uniform hung.

Belle shook her head. "No, the clothes are communal property, too. I was told, when they do the laundry, they just sort things out by size. Then they put them in piles so each sister can pick up one."

"Bloody hell. Even _underwear?_"

Belle shifted, thinking of her time in the asylum. At least someone cared that the nuns got things in the right size. They also had more frequent changes, clean clothes—and bathes—once a day, if they wanted them. Maybe more, if there was cause. Belle remembered the first bath she'd had after her escape—not a quick, cold shower but a _bath_, soaking in hot water as long as she wanted, using rose scented soaps and bath oils. She'd suspected Rumple of conjuring them up just for her.

Rumple.

Why did everything remind her of him? Why did a _nun's cell _remind her of his love, his kindness.

She'd thought she'd understood him, she thought she'd seen his heart. And, all the while, he was lying to her, using her to convince the others to trust him. Had that been in his mind when he danced with her after their wedding? When he led her up to that bedroom (a large, airy room where she could breathe), when he gave her that smile she thought was just for her, was he only thinking how easy it was to fool her? To _use _her?

What was real and what wasn't? She'd thought she'd known.

It didn't change what she had to do. She had to finish this, to find him, to help.

If he needed her help. If he wanted her at all. If he ever had.

No, she couldn't think about him. Not now.

"I think it was part of the curse," she told Will. "Real nuns don't take communal property quite this far."

"There's curses and there's just being nasty. Why'd the queen do _that _to them?"

Belle shrugged. "Maybe to keep people from doing the kind of magic we're trying. Next to Rumplestiltskin and the Savior, the fairies would have been her biggest threat. But, the curse has been broken a while now, and I don't think Astrid was ever very good at keeping the rules. She ought to have something." _I _hope _she has something. "_We're looking for anything that isn't part of a nun's uniform or—" she waved a hand, taking in the cot, the mirror, a small shelf of books (order texts and a stack of library books), "—or standard issue. Her wand, maybe?" The wands belonged to individual fairies, didn't they?

"Wouldn't a fairy be holding onto her wand, what with a curse about to fall and all that?"

"Not if she was afraid of hurting people," Belle said, opening a dresser drawer. Underwear. Will wouldn't want to see this.

"Then she'd hide it so she couldn't get at it, lock it up or something."

"Maybe," Belle said. "But, no one's seen her. She put herself under a spell. Or maybe the Blue Fairy put her under one. They meant to release her if they stopped Ingrid, but. . . ."

He nodded. "But, they aren't around to do it." His eyes widened. "Bloody hell, you think they were ready to cast it on _themselves? _You know, if they couldn't stop the Shattered Sight thing in time?"

"I hope so," Belle said. "That means they would have left the counterspell out where anyone could find it. Unless they had some other sort of failsafe. . . ." Or no failsafe. They'd been rushing to find a solution to Ingrid's spell. It was a little amazing they'd had the time to think about what would happen if they failed, a town under attack by an army of enraged, magical nuns.

She thought of Rumplestiltskin. Under a curse like that, he could have squashed the town flat. But, he'd been immune. Not that he couldn't be angry on his own. He'd told her something of his past. She thought he had—no, she trusted that much of what he'd told her. He could be angry and terrible, yes, but not like that.

No, everything he did was perfectly thought out ahead of time, wasn't it? Killing Zelena, destroying Hook. If he wrote down his plans instead of keeping everything in his head, they'd probably find things plotted out for the next five centuries, down to what he was thinking for having for breakfast half a millennium from now.

Hook said Rumplestiltskin was going to abandon the town. He'd had a plan to rescue Henry and Belle, but the rest of them could go hang.

Belle didn't know if she believed Hook or not. Her heart told her there was more to it than that. The man she knew wouldn't have just walked away. He would have tried to find a way to save them if only because he hated to be beaten on his own turf.

Or the man she thought she knew wouldn't have done that.

Will walked past the dresser, very deliberately not even looking at the drawer Belle had open. He went to the shelf and started picking up the books, holding them up and flipping the pages. Nothing came out of the _History of the Anglican Church _or _The_ _Book of Common Prayer_. But, then Will got to _Rules of the Order of Saint Melissa_. A small bookmark fluttered out.

"Oops," Will said. "Lost her place." He picked up the bookmark and handed it to Belle. "Think this is personal enough?"

Belle looked at it. It was simple, homemade bookmark, piece of cardstock with a pressed flower mounted on the paper. Wax paper had been cut to fit over it and ironed on. "It's a starflower," Belle said. "From Firefly Meadow." She remembered Leroy (or Dreamy) telling her about the fairy who wanted to meet him to see the fireflies. She'd kept this all these years? Even when she didn't know what it was?

Belle thought of her chipped cup. Rumplestiltskin had kept it for twenty-eight years of the curse even though he hadn't remembered who she was—or who he was—till Emma came and his memory returned to him. There were things people held onto.

Or that they didn't hold onto. Rumple had used the cup to try and help her when she'd lost her memory at the town line, and she'd smashed it to pieces.

She'd lost herself at the town line, but he'd held onto her. Even when she turned against him, treating him like a monster, he'd done everything he could to bring her back—even when Regina filled her with false memories, making her into a person who could look at all the good in Rumple's heart and try to crush it, he hadn't let her go.

She hadn't been able to do the same for him.

Belle took the bookmark and opened up the bottle of potion she'd brought with her. "We'll have to move quickly," she told Will. "Once this touches the bookmark, it should go back to her. It won't slow down for us." She sprinkled a few drops onto the wax paper, and it began to move like a small feather caught in a breeze, floating out the door.

And they ran.

The bookmark floated uncertainly, as if it really were caught in the wind—or scenting out a trail, Belle thought, as it made another about face, swooping past them. It came at last to the Mother Superior's office, hovering unsurely in front of the closed door before tapping against the dark oak, then retreating.

"Just curious, think it's got some of Sister Astrid in it? It looks like a kid sent to the head."

Yes, that was Sister Astrid. She bounced back and forth between childish enthusiasm and being a toddler caught with a broken cookie jar on the floor and crumbs on her face. Belle turned the brass handle, wondering if Will had the skills to open it if it was locked (and if there was a polite way to ask. Or a good way to mention she knew where Rumple's lock-picking tools were if Will didn't have any). But, apparently, the Sisters of Saint Mellissa trusted each other. It was only the front door to the outside world that was kept locked and barred.

Belle opened it, and the bookmark floated in, landing on the desk.

No, landing on a paperweight on the desk.

Belle picked it up. It was about five inches of frosted glass, shaped like an egg, a bit thinner and more tapered towards the top with a flat bottom to let it stand.

_An egg, _Belle thought, holding it up to the light and examining it. _Dwarves hatch from eggs that grow from stones in the earth. _She'd never heard for certain where fairies came from. Some stories said they burst into life with a child's first laugh. Some said, like Thumbelina—the more usual version of Thumbelina—they were born from certain flowers. Rumple might have known, but she'd never asked him. He didn't like to discuss fairies.

As Belle turned it, she could see a figure inside, sparkling in clear, leaded glass. It was the figure of a woman, curled up in fetal position, eyes closed in sleep. It was a perfect image of Sister Astrid.

Will was the first one to break the silence. "So, you said you needed blood to work the other spell, right? To draw out the other fairies to have them free Astrid. Am I the only one seeing a problem?"


End file.
